Lost Souls: or no one is truly a Saint
by Avaril
Summary: Lydia De Lira has her world turned upside down by the sudden appearance of her father.  Rated M for strong language, violence, and mild sexual content.  Anyone who saw the movies, should not be surprise.
1. Chapter 1

_**Title: Lost Souls: or no one is truly a saint**_

_**Author: Avaril**_

_**Fandom: Boondock Saints**_

_**Summary: Lydia De Lira's world is interrupted, and she finds herself far from the warm southern home she loved. Starts at the beginning of Boondock Saints 1 and goes beyond.**_

_**Disclaimer:**_

_**I do not own Boondock Saints, and never will. No profit is made from this story. Just purely for the fun of it.**_

_**Music referenced in this chapter:**_

_** - Nina Simone's Pirate Jenny (look it up, it is genius)**_

_**Constructive criticism is always welcome! I want to improve my writing.**_

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

New Orleans; March 1, 1999 - 8 pm

Lydia wrapped her black knee length trenchcoat tighter, tying the belt securely and stiffly walked toward the darkened door of her employer. It had been raining steadily for three days, and she was chilled her to the marrow. Despite the slick cobbles of the street, her stiletto heels remained stable, and she knew once she got inside, the heat would bring her to sweating. Not to mention the physical exertion.

Her key stuck in the lock, and while she struggle with the ancient metal device, wind blew against the faded wooden sign of "The Zombie Queen". Cursing, Lydia wiped away the water that had drenched the only uncovered section of her body - her raven hair - and down inside her coat. She glared up at the curvaceous and scantily clad painted "Zombie Queen", then bent back to her task. Why had she volunteered to open for her boss tonight, Lydia could no longer remember. She would definitely be putting oil on the establishment's shopping list first thing when she got inside. Finally, a sigh of relief escaped her lips, followed by another curse at the wind, as metal popped, and the lock clicked open.

Light burst through the audience section of the small theatre, small, round wooden tables closely set together to serve the numerous patrons that came each night. Lydia quickly found the thermostat and upped it to 75, though she knew later in the night, as body heat rose, it would be pushed back down to about 60.

Fuck this weather, she thought to herself. This is fucking Nawlins, and it shouldn't be this cold...ever.

"Lyyydiaaa..." a syrupy southern voice called out, followed by the banging of the heavy wooden door she'd just unlocked.

Lydia listened for the thermostat to click on, then turned to the petite blonde woman who gave Marilyn Monroe a run for her money. She smiled and nodded. "Gabby, you give a whole new meaning to 'blondes have more fun'..." She shrugged out of her trench coat and laid it across the scarred bar running the entire length of the left side of the theatre. Jumping up, and leaning over the side of the bar to see behind it, Lydia rummaged for a clean bar mop and started wringing out her soaked hair.

At five foot four, Gabby was Sir Mix-A-Lot and ZZ Top's wet dream with her measurements of 36 triple Ds, 18 inch waist, and her 36 hips. Well, theirs and half of the clientele who came to the Zombie Queen. Golden hair and pouty ruby lips made the rest of her pin-up look, and probably helped her get extra tips.

"Aw, come on, Lydia, yer just as sexy in yer own way, darlin'." Gabby pulled out her compact, straightening her hair to look more tousled, then reapplied her already bright cherry lipstick.

Lydia laughed, knowing full well just how many of the patrons drooled over her Creole genetics. Taller than Gabby by just a three inches, her figured wasn't quite as full as Gabby's, but she was just as able to knock 'em dead when it really mattered.

Her long black hair had started curling at the ends as it dried, and she mopped off her neck and shoulders. Her French and Spanish heritage shone brightly in her creamy ivory skin and curly ebony hair. But what struck most people when they first saw her were her bright green eyes. Red lips that didn't need extra help from lipstick. Gabby often compared her to Snow White. However, in New Orleans, girls like her were a dime a dozen, and Lydia didn't consider herself anything spectacular, and often wondered what the patrons of the Zombie Queen really saw in her.

The stage suddenly lit up with a loud hiss of the gas lights that the owner had decided to keep for authenticity. Lydia and Gabby jerked their heads up at the sound of boots thumping and scuffing against the wooden floor of the stage.

"Hullo, girls," the deep Texan baritone of their employer echoed through the room as he bent down to check a couple of the lights lining the front perimeter of the stage. His tattered and curled cowboy hat hid his face from their view. He wore a tan pearl snap western-style shirt he'd probably gotten at a resale shop and faded jeans that had seen better days. But the look worked for him, and woman fawned over him.

"Brent, you need to get a fucking new lock for that door." Lydia returned to her task of drying off, while Gabby giggled, understanding her frustration completely.

Brent didn't look up, just wiped his hands against his worn, faded jeans and stood. "Just needs a bit of WD 40. Be right as rain after that." He coughed and looked a spell about the room. "Probably won't get many out tonight, nasty bit of weather we've been having." Brent jumped from the stage to the floor and walked toward the two women at the bar.

Gabby shut her compact with a click, giggled again, and popped up onto her toes to plant a giant smooch on his rough cheek. "You should learn to shave," she chuckled. "Anyway, as slow as its been, I bet we get a big crowd tonight due to cabin fever. Anyone needs me," she picked up her bag and headed toward the stairs leading to the dressing room, "I'll be upstairs getting ready."

Lydia rolled her eyes and gave Brent a hug in greeting and smiled. "Poor Gabby, always has to primp for two hours before anyone else even arrives."

Brent shrugged, "Well, I suppose she doesn't like sharing a mirror." He looked toward the stairs where Gabby had just been, "Not that I blame her..." he trailed off.

Lydia rolled her eyes again, "You two are like dogs in heat, and that's my cue to leave you as well." She grabbed her coat and ran toward the stairs before Brent could comment on her need to find someone as well.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

"You people can watch while I'm scrubbin' these floors..." on her knees, Lydia leaned over scrubbing a sponge across the stage, "And I'm scrubbin' these floors while you're gawking..." she leaned back, squeezing the sponge out down her torso eliciting an approving gasp and hollers from the crowd.

The stench of human bodies entirely too close to each other, mingled with alcohol and cigarettes, smelled like home to Lydia. Of men aroused, and women jealous or turned on, all mixed into the haze of the Zombie Queen. Lights dim except on the stage, the girls clad in their bustiers and garters, stilettos clicking in rhythm as they danced. Breasts heaved on stage as trousers bulged in the audience.

"Then one night there's a scream in the night!" A girl dragged a man from the audience, hands running suggestively over his body, "And you'll wonder who could that have been..." Lydia snapped her legs open and tossed her head, the other pirate making as if to tie him up.

"There's a ship,

The Black Freighter!"

The chorus of girls joined Lydia in her dance, and the audience grew louder,

"With a skull on its masthead,

Will be coming in!"

The crowd grew quieter as Lydia continued singing.

The live band kept a lively beat. Burlesque was the name, and lust the game. Lydia's tits spilled out of her corset, shredded muslin brushing against her upper arms as she belted out "Pirate Jenny" in her best Nina Simone imitation, strutted and pouted, blowing an occasional kiss to someone in the crowded audience. Torn thigh highs and a knife strapped to her leg with a pink ribbon, a black high-heeled foot pushing down the head of one of the band members, "this whole frickin' place will be down to the ground," she said, sliding her hand over her breast and stomach, suggestive twitch of her hips. "They're chaining up people...bringin' 'em to me..." Two gals behind her dragged the man to the stage and bound him with chains on his knees, provocatively placing his head between legs and breasts.

Gabby had not been wrong, and Brent smiled from where he propped up against the bar, his staff pouring the drinks as fast as they could get new bottles opened. The rain had not been enough to keep everyone home any longer, and if anything, his girls could warm the blood enough to cure any ailment.

Girls was such a diminutive word for his employees. Women. Sexy, fantasy inspiring, cock teasing, lusty Women. And he had the best in New Orleans. All shapes and sizes to accommodate any man or woman's taste.

But of them all, Lydia and Gabby stole the show every night. As different as the sun and moon, those two were the money makers. And he treated them respectfully and well, compensating them for their hard work. The hours practicing routines during the week so that when Friday night came around it was flawless for their consumers.

Brent shifted his eyes across the room, taking in and nodding to different patrons, most whom he knew well after the past five years of running the Zombie Queen. He paused, concentration drowning out the pulsing music and crowd. A man sat alone at a table furthest from the stage. Brent felt his skin crawl, and he looked again. The man had a glass of scotch, but had barely drunk any, keeping instead his body ridged and his gaze intend on the stage where Lydia had just finished her routine. Whistles and hoots filled the theatre, along with false disappointment at the end of her number, the clientele knowing full well that she would be back after Gabby finished. Blonde and busty, Gabby bounced out in cowboy boots and a red and white gingham corset, the band starting the intro to "These Boots were made for walkin'."

The solitary man's eyes followed Lydia off the stage, and he pulled out his wallet and dropped a fifty on the table. Brent watched him stand, approach the bar and begin to speak quietly to the bartender in his ear. The younger man looked at Brent and pointed, indicating that the man should come to him. Brent reach back behind the bar and grabbed an Abita from the ice tub, popping it open with his keys.

"Brent Westen." The man spoke brusquely and pulled a card from somewhere in his jacket. "I need this given to Lydia De Lira. It's imperative she receive it tonight."

Brent drank a long gulp and set his beer down, taking the card. "Who should I say gave it to her," he glanced at the card. Just a number had been written on it, and the area code wasn't one he was familiar with. Definitely not Louisiana.

"My name is not important, but it has to do with her father."

The man's accent reminded Brent of Yankees, and he frowned, looking down at the card again. "She doesn't have a..." He looked up, and the man was gone.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Brent was still sitting at the bar when Lydia came down, wrapped in her coat, purse and keys in hand. She glanced over the green foiled paper littering the table and the bottles lined up. Gabby had already left, complaining of aching feet and boobs that had been shimmied just a bit too much.

"Are you alright, Brent," she questioned, pulling up beside him on a stool. She grabbed herself an Abita strawberry harvest from the bar cooler and popped the top off. Taking a drink, she smiled. "We had a good night. Probably made up for the last couple of days. Guess they were saving it all for tonight." She pushed her hair back and watched Brent carefully for a response, rolling the bottle back and forth on the bar.

Brent tossed the card at her without looking at her. It landed in front of her face up, and she picked it up gingerly. She frowned, turning it over, then back again.

"Not another love sick puppy," she forced a smile again, chuckling at the numerous men that had 'fallen' in love with the girls on stage.

Brent shook his head, and she watched him slowly turn toward her. "That," he pointed at the card with his beer, then took a swallow, "is from the fucking devil." He scowled and finished off the rest of his bottle. "I called it, out of curiosity, and this is all I can tell you - fucking burn it and disappear or do exactly what the owner of that number wants."

Lydia knit her brows in confusion, pondering the number again. "Please explain a bit more, Brent," she replied, her voice strained.

Brent explained about the man who'd watched her. "He said it was about your dad. But I knew you said that he'd died before you were born...so...I was about to call him out on it, but he'd disappeared before I could, so I decided to call it myself. I demanded to know who was on the other end..." Brent faltered and closed his eyes, pain crossing his face.

"And who was it?" Lydia gently pushed him, placing her hand on his, her voice soft.

Brent's eyes flicked open, the expression of fear in his eyes jarring Lydia. It was not something she'd seen in his eyes before.

Joviality with his girls, calm danger toward those who'd harm them, those were emotions she'd been use to seeing. Not the horror and fear she saw now.

"I...I don't know. But they knew a lot about you and threatened things even my imagination couldn't invent, if I didn't pass on the number." He reached over and grabbed another beer, this one a Shiner. The top popped off, and he downed it quickly. "If I were you, I'd disappear." He stared at the back of the bar, bottles of clear and amber liquid glowing in the dim gas lights.

Lydia folded the card and slipped it into her purse. Reaching over she kissed him on the cheek and smiled again. "I'll think about it. Surely, it cannot be as big a deal as he is making it out to be." She finished off the rest of her beer and leaned over the bar to drop it in the trash.

Brent nodded doubtfully and got up to walk her to the door. He paused and then followed her out. "I'll drive you home tonight, just in case."

Considering the rain and cold, Lydia didn't protest.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

"Mother, what do you mean, he isn't dead?" Lydia's pale skin was flush with anger.

"It was just my wishful thinking," Margaret, her mother, puffed out after a drag on her cigarette. "The fucking bastard. Shouldn't have let his Italian charms overcome my good sense."

Lydia's mother was exactly what she expected to look like in 30 years. Still curvy and attractive, with years of hard living to give her a cynical edge. Men still let their eyes wander over Margaret, taking into full appreciation the Creole woman who'd passed on her traits to a beautiful daughter. But that was usually as far as their involvement with Margaret went. After her spell with Lydia's father, she'd sworn off men and on to booze and cigarettes, teaching her daughter to be wary of any man, with the exception of Brent Westen who'd proven himself to be a respectful gentleman despite his rough appearance.

"Where was he from? Brent said the man on the phone had a Yank accent." Lydia poured herself another cup of coffee and plopped into a worn vinyl chair at the sunny yellow formica table. The entire kitchen screamed apple green, stuck in the forties, and 1970's orange and brown plaid curtains, but it was still the most comforting place to sit with her mother.

Margaret studied her daughter with a frown, sucking another drag out of her cigarette.

"Boston," she finally replied, stubbing out the last of her cigarette in the ashtray between them. "Antonio Distephano was his name, and I'm sorry the fucking bilge rat is trying to get into your life, but..." Margaret paused to light another cigarette, "...if he is contacting you, then I would answer."

Lydia looked up sharply at her mother's sudden change of tone. Margaret's voice had wavered just slightly, but Lydia recognized it for what it was. Fear. Just like Brent had expressed.

"Surely, Mother, being a jerk isn't cause to fear a man."

Margaret sighed and stood to pour her a cup of coffee. "He ain't just any man, darlin', and if he wants you, he'll get you no matter what you may think you can do." She set her cup down and pulled out one of the kitchen drawers . Pulling out the .32 Smith &Wesson she kept there in case of emergencies, she set it down in its weathered leather holster on the table next to Lydia's cup. "At least take this with you."

"What," Lydia exclaimed, "Who said I was leaving?"

Margaret sniffed, then sipped her coffee. "He did. And you'll be needing that."

Lydia reached for the gun, running her fingers over the tooled initials RD, her grandfather Raul De Lira. She didn't flinch at the feel of the cool, oily metal of the gun itself, having become quite familiar with the firearm as a girl, her grandfather insisting that his women never become victims of any man. Removing it out of the holster, Lydia popped the chamber out and examined the six bullets already loaded into it, then pressed it carefully back into place.

The clink of metal against metal echoed in her ears as her mother tossed the box of bullets onto the table.

"I've got a couple more boxes in the bedroom. That should cover you for a while, should you need them." Margaret didn't offer any hopes that Lydia wouldn't, cause she doubted that would be true.

"Right," Lydia slid the gun back into its holster, then finished her coffee. Her eyes met her mother's.

Margaret dropped away from her daughter's intense, silent questions, and poured her coffee out into the sink, watching the people pass by their corner lot shotgun shack. The Irish channel had been their home for all of Lydia's 25 years, but now it seemed even further removed from Margaret's life before Lydia had come to her. A failed stint to escape the city of her birth had sent her to a couple of years to wander the streets of Boston testing her luck. And it had been tested. By a pair of black eyes and an accent so sexy, she had melted in all her innocence and found herself quickly pregnant with an asshole's child.

Back in New Orleans, her father hadn't said a word, but had helped her get to where she could support a baby herself. And now, after years of nothing from Antonio Distephano, here he was disrupting their peaceful life.

"Take the keys to the El Camino and drive there. You'll need a car once you get there, and I can easily get another here." Margaret didn't look at her daughter before leaving the room.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Lydia threw clothes into the white Hefties with red ties her mother had given her from under the sink. The garbage bags bulged as she shoved underwear, pants, socks, shirts...whatever would fit into them. The banana yellow, rusty El Camino sat outside in front of their little pale blue shotgun shack, and Lydia hoisted the two bags over her shoulder and carried them out to the truck, dumping them into the back seat. She'd already hidden the gun beneath the seat, and Lydia didn't see the point in taking any real care to packing.

The narrow one way street was littered with jalopies like hers, though there were few people out in the rain and cold. Lydia jogged back into the house where her mother was sitting in the room they'd designated the living room, the room closest to the front door where Lydia slept on the couch. Behind that through an open arch way was Margaret's 'bedroom' and beyond that, the kitchen and bathroom at the rear of the house. It wasn't much, Lydia thought looking around at the space, but it was home and such a part of her as was the neighborhood.

Margaret stood up, not saying a word, and hugged her daughter. She held her at arms length, and a solitary tear betrayed her true emotions regarding her daughter's leaving.

"I love you, mother," Lydia hugged her mother again.

"Yeah, and I you." Margaret stroked Lydia's hair and closed her eyes in pain.

Lydia pulled away and picked up her black Lynard Skynard ball cap and tucked her raven curls beneath it. "I'll call you, let you know I made it." She examined her tattered brown leather shoulder bag, making sure her money and things were there, and pulled it over her head and across her chest, "Bye, mom," one last hug and Lydia forced herself out of the house.

Lydia slid behind the El Camino, daring to look at the blue house and at the other dilapidated ones surrounding it. The ignition cranked, and Lydia popped the clutch, and with a rattle, the truck started. She pulled out, drove toward Tchoupitoulas Street, which ran along the Mississippi, and turned left toward I10.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Yet again, I don't own anything except my OC Lydia, and other random OCs...**

**Thank you to those who've read and commented or favorited and watched this story. Constructive feedback is always welcome.**

**And if anyone has any questions about what a .32 Smith and Wesson is, it's a kick-ass little six-shooter revolver that they don't make anymore. The kind a person could carry in their purse or on the hip, and have it pretty well concealed. In 1999, Lydia's is older, since they quit making them in 1976.**

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Lydia found herself lost. Oh, it had been easy enough to find her way to Boston...straight up through Tennessee and Virginia and up the coast, her gun safely hidden away beneath the seats of the El Camino, Sublime blaring from the tape deck.

The back seat was haphazard with the bags of clothes she'd just tossed in, and her tits itched from the money she'd stuffed in her bra for safe keeping. Brent,, Gabby and the girls, and her mother's last bit of generosity before she left.

Enough to get a place and then wait to see what happened. She'd hadn't called the number since Brent had given it to her, but she knew that if they'd known where she was in New Orleans, they'd quickly become aware of her presence in Boston.

The sharp pain of her new apartment key sticking into her thigh from her pocket jarred her thoughts back to her current predicament. The apartment stunk to high heaven of dog and vomit which the landlord felt was not his responsibility to deal with. The carpet shampooer had been a pain in the ass to lug to the third floor of the complex and hadn't actually made a big difference in the color of the carpet or the stench. Lydia'd splurged on carpet powders and incense, hoping for but not expecting the best.

At least the previous tenants had left their ratty furniture, so she didn't have to find any. But, she had purchased sheets to pin over it all for fear of unknown diseases. Lydia finished pinning the last fold around the bottom of the sunken couch and laid down. She promised herself to find a job quickly so she could remedy her living situation as soon as possible.

Atop her newly acquired broken television sat the Smith and Wesson .32, staring at her as if to remind her of why she'd come to Boston. What was her mother expecting to happen while here? What would her father be like after all these years... And what the hell was her mother not telling her!

Lydia scowled and reached for the gun from her prone position. She emptied the bullets onto the floor and stood. The holster slid onto her belt easily, familiar to her from so many years before. The gun weighted it just enough to feel secure.

"Don't make another fucking move," she drew the gun and aimed at the door, using her bravest sounding voice. She giggled nervously. "Ah'll fuckin' blow yer brains out..." she giggled again at her faked Texas drawl. The small revolver had always reminded her of the John Wayne westerns her grandfather had made her watch with him when she was little. She turned it over in her hand, remembering wistfully all the times he'd taken her out behind his little white three bedroom house in Lafayette, a couple hours west of New Orleans on I10. They'd practiced for hours, his cigarette roughened voice guiding her through sighting and aiming the weapon, then continuing to help her through the cleaning and oiling process.

She bent down to pick up the bullets and popped the revolver open, reloading the gun. Returning it to the tooled leather holster still on her hip, she looked around the apartment one last time and grabbed the dark gray woolen coat she'd picked up at the Boston Salvation Army, after she'd realized that the New Orleans' winter was nothing compared to where she was now.

Lydia pulled the coat on over her light gray sweater and buttoned it, checking to make sure it hid the revolver on her hip. She smiled. It didn't even make a bump on the outside of the coat. She fitted her newly acquired wool hat over her head and ears and pulled the door shut as she moved into the hall. Locking the door, she headed for the elevator.

She hadn't been able to afford to install a phone, but conveniently there was a pay phone outside the front of her building. Shivering despite her coat and hat, Lydia slipped into the dingy little glass box and stared with disgust at the phone and the other contents of the booth. Obscene messages regarding female and male body parts littered the walls and glass, and she seriously questioned the sanitary state of the phone itself. Even in her former line of work, she'd never seen anything quite this disturbing. Ignoring the special abilities of "Caitlyn" lauded right next to the receiver, Lydia dialed the number on the card and waited for the ring. It rang twice before a thick Italian accent responded.

"About fucking time. We'll pick you up in the morning." Click.

Lydia narrowed her eyes angrily at the receiver and slammed it down. Finding another quarter, she pushed it in and dialed the number again.

"Now look here, you fuckwad," she growled into the phone when it picked up, faintly aware of a knock on the booth door. "You fuckin' gave me this goddamn number, and I have some fuckin' questions."

There was a brief silence followed by another knock on the glass. Lydia shot the bird without bothering to look up at whoever needed the phone after her. The man on the other end of the phone spoke finally.

"Nine am, be ready." Click. Again.

"FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!" She screamed at the phone, slamming it repeatedly and unsuccessfully back into the cradle.

"Hey, miss!" The man outside the booth knocked again, impatiently, and she finally looked up at him.

She banged the glass. "FUCK OFF! Can't you see I'm using it!" The man stepped back a bit from the door, revealing another one just behind him, both wearing matching black woolen peacoats and ratty looking jeans. She could hear their muffled voices, but not what they were saying, and she didn't care.

Feeling back into her pocket, she discovered she didn't have anymore quarters and sighed. Fuck. She wrenched the door open and stepped out into the cold. Glaring at the two men, she grumbled, "It's all yours..."

"'Bout fuckin' time," the one who'd been pounding on the door slipped in while the other stayed out and took a few drags of his cigarette.

Lydia started down the street; she'd heard about a pub a street over, and the prospect of returning to her apartment made her gag. She could try for a job, or at the least get a stiff drink on her last night of blissful unawareness.

"Hey, miss, everything okay?"

It wasn't Italian or Boston, she thought to herself. Lydia turned toward the man. She didn't say anything in response, just stared. The bitter wind blew her black hair across her face, and she swiped at it in frustration with stiff frozen fingers.

"I," she finally began, "hate this fucking town." Turning back around toward the side street, she sloshed through the dirty gray slush one might have called snow.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

The pub sign said McGinty's, and Lydia sighed, remembering the "Irish" pubs in the Quarter and thinking that they were slightly ridiculous in her opinion. Themed places run by people who'd probably never been to Ireland or even seen an Irish person. It was already dark outside, though it was only five, due to the weather, and Lydia pulled her coat tighter as she entered the pub. Music blared in the background of loud boisterous voices, the sharp click of pool cues and balls against each other, and the slosh of dark brown liquid in pint glasses. Lydia immediately noticed the difference between this pub and the ones in New Orleans. A distinct accent that actually was Irish.

An elderly man stood behind the bar passing out glasses and bottles, his stutter loud and obvious. Where she was standing, she could only see one other person serving, a middle aged woman who looked as if she'd lived quite a full life, and despite her smile and joviality, was tired. She also noticed a severe lack in female patrons, and Lydia smiled.

Decorated in dark woods and mirrors advertising different brands of beer and whiskey, the bar had a cozy feel added to by the heat of the crowd. She started to pull off her coat, then remembered the gun at her hip and put it back on, and pushed her way through to the bar, placing her hands firmly on the scarred top. The elderly man stared at her confused a moment, then smiled.

"Whatcha ya w-w-want, lassie?" She ordered a bourbon and quickly took a vacated stool. Turning her back to the bar, she surveyed the room and tossed back her drink, set down her glass for a refill and took it back. A mix of rock Irish music filled the air. Her drink began to warm her blood, and Lydia discretely unsnapped the holster from her belt and slid it into her pocket. She took off her jacket and laid it over her barstool.

Lydia watched the older woman serving drinks. No one treated her with anything less than absolute respect and fond joking. Obviously, the patrons were regulars and were on friendly terms with the woman and bartender, both of whom she began to suspect were related somehow, though she doubted it was in marriage. The woman passed by her in a flash of badly dyed blonde hair, and Lydia reached out for her arm.

"Ya need something, dearie," the woman answered her touch in a kind Irish tone, and Lydia smiled clearing her throat.

"Yes, a job, ma'am," Lydia blushed a bit. "I've got experience and I noticed -"

The woman shook her head and smiled sadly. "Sorry miss, we don't need any help."

"Surely, one more would alleviate your load? Dishwashing perhaps? I'll do cleanin'." Lydia winced as desperation crept into her voice, and shame filled her. The woman also seemed to noticed and softened her expression.

"Perhaps. I'll talk it over with my brother." The woman replied. "Leave ya number with us and we can call ya."

Lydia blushed darker, "I'm afraid I'm new in Boston and don't have a number, or phone..." She didn't need to add that was the reason she was looking for a job. She was desperate for money.

A sudden burst of cold air and wet chilled the room and the noise level rose. The woman looked up over Lydia's head and broke out into an amused grin. Lydia turned toward the door and immediately recognized the two men from the phone booth. She frowned as she heard the woman call out to them.

"Connor and Murphy! What in the devil brings ya two in on a Thursday night!" She grabbed to pints off the bar that had immediately appeared from nowhere and handed them to the two men, who seemed awfully similar, yet not in a conventional way.

The lighter haired one winked at her and replied, "Well, ya know, Bessie, when the weather gets chilled, we Irish need a stiff drink!" His arms wrapped around Bessie and gave her a squeeze as he kissed her on the cheek. The darker haired man was already making it around the bar, and it was clear to Lydia that these two were regulars and familiar and friendly to all.

"B-B-Boys! D-D-D...D-D-D... oh... FUCK! ASS!" the room roared with laughter at Doc's Tourettes and exclamation. "S-S-St. Paddy's is in two days! And I expect to see yas here!"

The newly arrived men laughed and reached for their second pints. A couple of guys cleared away for them to sit at the bar, terribly close to Lydia she noticed and frowned. She'd switched to Shiner, unable to get Abita this far North, and nursed one slowly as Connor sat beside her. He accidently jostled her and her bottle tipped and spilled across the bar.

"AH! Fuck me, miss," he turned toward her, snatched her upset bottle and assessed her drenched shirt. Lydia pursed her lips in a frustrated smile. He grabbed Doc's barmop and begin sopping up the spill. "I'm terribly sorry-" He stopped abruptly as he began to recognize her and started laughing.

Lydia narrowed her eyes.

"Sorry, about that earlier, lass, rough day at work. Glad to see ya've found something to like about Boston, though." He winked and finished cleaning her section of the bar. She found a twitch at the corners of her mouth, and he laughed again, raising his glass to his mouth. "Perhaps we can get a smile outta ya before the evening is over."

It was crowded at the bar and the press of his side against her heated her through. On his other side sat Murphy.

Murphy leaned toward them, "Connor, what lass are ya charming the pants off," and recognition immediately registered. "Ah, tis you! Well, did ya resolve ya conflict with the fella on the phone?" His grin was disarming, lopsided and charming.

Both had crystal blue eyes. That was disturbing and made her realize what it was about them that made them look like they belonged to each other.

"Are you two brothers?" She quipped suddenly.

Murphy laughed and banged his glass on the bar, signaling his need for a refill, and Bessie, now behind the bar for a brief spell, quickly acquiesced.

Connor nodded. "Yep, miss, we're twins. And this one here," he hooked his thumb toward Murphy, "is the younger." The twinkle in his eye made her wonder just how full of shit the two were.

Murphy smacked his brother in the back of the head and grinned. "Now, we don't know that for sure...Ma's never told us the straight out the truth."

Lydia laughed and started on her new drink.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

The sun blinded her before she realized where she was. Sitting straight up, Lydia panicked and surveyed the room around her. Dingy, dirty, and smelling of dog vomit, it all flood back to her, and she flopped back onto the couch with a groan. She didn't have any kind of time telling device to gauge how long she'd been sleeping, but she felt relatively assured that if it was past 8, she'd already been drug from her bed and off to some secret location to meet whomever had been on the phone.

Rolling off on to the floor, she half crawled to her jeans and pulled them on. She laced her sneakers and rummaged around for her bra. Not finding it, she cursed briefly, shrugged, dropped a white tanktop over her head and pulled her cleanest shirt on, a plaid flannel, and buttoned it up.

"Mother of God," she muttered under her breath, her head throbbing with the alcohol of the night before, and slipped into her coat and her knitted cap. Winter in Boston was fucking with her mind. She paused and looking around, searched for the revolver. Grabbing it off the TV, she shoved it down the back of her jeans, holster and all. It was uncomfortable, pressing into her ass, but at least she had it.

She ran down the three flights of stairs to the foyer of the apartment building, the blast of cold air momentarily stunning her before she notice the black BMW parked at the curb. Black-tinted windows gave her a moment's hesitation-then the doors opened. A huge beefy Italian stepped out, holding the door open while indicating that she was to enter the vehicle. When she didn't move, he grabbed her by the arm and assisted her roughly.

"Get your fucking hands off me," she jerked out of his grip and slid into the car. He squeezed in beside her, forcing her to be squished between him and the other man already in the car.

"Drive, Rocco," the man to her left spoke in a monotone, and Lydia looked up to catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror of the driver, long black scraggly looking hair, beard and sunglasses hiding his eyes. She leaned forward a bit to watch out the windows, but she couldn't see far around the puffed out suits and coats of the two men, neither of whom seemed aware of her presence. She sat back with a huff and closed her eyes, imagining herself far away, in a more humid and warm climate, the sounds of jazz and blues drifting around her.

Lydia jerked against her seat belt as the car stopped, her fantasy vanishing in a puff of cigarette smoke the man to her left exhaled into her face.

"Out," he exited and waited for her to extract herself from the car.

Standing straight up and reveling in the ability to stretch out,she gaped at the expanse before her, the white Greek columns, granite steps that led into what could have competed with any house on St. Charles. The men led her into the heavily marbled entrance way, where naked cherubs and Italian sculptures, gilded with gold and oppressive to her senses decorated every available surface.

One of the men pushed her down into a chair and left, while the other stood by a door, hands crossed in front like one of the secret service she'd seen on TV. Lydia pressed further back into her chair, mentally calming as she felt the press of warm burgundy leather against her back.

"Where is she, my bambina!" A loud voice called out from somewhere in the house, followed by the hurried rush of footsteps and silk. A man in a gaudy silk dressing gown, his balding head shining in the lights of the foyer, entered and glanced around till he saw Lydia sitting quietly to the side.

"Antonio Distephano?" She managed to squeak out as the large man grabbed her into a bear hug, kissing her on both cheeks. She winced as the felt the gun slide further down into her pants. But at least he hadn't felt it.

Antonio wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her with him toward the kitchen. "Now, darling bambina, how has Boston been?"

Lydia moved carefully away again and followed him, licking her lips and wishing she'd a shot of tequila or something stronger. "It ain't Nawlins," she murmured, keeping her eyes on the the man claiming to be her father. She flicked her thumb against her pants, cursing her luck. She'd suddenly realized that the men who brought her had been carrying what appeared to be fierce looking guns. Definitely a level above her little six shooter revolver.

Antonio studied her, "Doubt my sincerity, do you?" His countenance softened further, more bittersweet than anything else. "How's your mother?"

"She fuckin' hates you. Told me you were dead." She looked around the kitchen, bigger than the combined space of the living room and kitchen at her mother's house. Black granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances. Considering how little she'd eaten since arriving in Boston, the thought of a real meal made her stomach growl, and she eyed the left overs of a large breakfast still covering the marbled island counter. Her father certainly had done well for himself, and she thought of the run-down shotgun shack she and her mother had occupied all her childhood. She missed it and decided it was better than this place. There was love in that house.

Antonio didn't answer, instead he looked up as a man brought him a phone. Lydia wandered back inside herself as she listened to the one sided murmurs of consent. He handed the phone back to the other man and looked at her. He frowned before smiling again.

"I'm sorry to hear that about your mother,," he absently picked at his robe. Sighing, he turned away. "I have an appointment with my employer in an hour. Before then, are you hungry?"

Coffee and eggs, bacon and toast...fruit. Lydia realized she was more hungry than she'd thought, and ate faster than she'd meant to. Antonio watched her with curiosity, then crossed the room to a drawer and pulled out a wad of bills. They thumped softly on the table as he tossed them to her. Lydia looked up suddenly, washing toast down with the coffee and eyed the bills with distrust and need. Her luck had not been present at the pub last night, and she couldn't be sure if she'd be able to find a job any time soon.

"It's the least I can do for now."

Lydia grabbed the bills and stuffed them down into her coat pocket. It was the least he could do after 25 years of absence, she thought. She washed eggs and toast down with coffee. So far he'd just bullshitted her, and still no word as to why he had suddenly taken an interest in her. Downing the rest of her coffee, Lydia set the mug down and leaned back against the island, taking a deep breath, trying to catch it after gorging herself.

"So, what the fuck did you want with me?" She shifted uncomfortably, the gun pressing painfully into her ass, and Lydia knew she would have a bruise from it.

Antonio tugged a curl peeking from under her cap and pushed it back behind her ear. "Can't a father be curious and want to know about his own daughter?"

Fuck that, she thought and pulled back from him, sliding sideways back toward the hall. This didn't feel right, especially not with the way Brent had reacted to his conversation with the guy on the phone.

"We can offer you a life here. As my daughter, you'd never have to work again. Anything you want, you can have it." He let have her space.

"Right..." Lydia narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her. She'd had everything she wanted in New Orleans, and his offer, definitely sounded like it had a catch to it, but what, she couldn't seem to figure out. "I don't know what you want from me, but I'm not interested. It was nice meetin' you and all...but..." She didn't finish her thought, unable to find anything more to say. She had already lied, considering she'd never cared to meet him in the first place. "Look, can I just go?"

Antonio snapped his fingers and a guy appeared from somewhere in the hall. "Take her back to her place. Lydia," he smiled at her and reached for her hand, covering it with both of his in a tender gesture that didn't quite feel genuine, "I'll be back in touch with you."

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Antonio watched the BMW drive off from behind the heavy maroon brocade curtains covering the windows in his office. Behind him was his desk, a dark mahogany monstrosity that only an Italian mob boss could appreciate. On top sat his little silver Nokia bar phone, which he'd insisted was all he needed, not wanting to bother with fancier cellphone models. Pappa Joe had tried to convince him otherwise, but this was all Antonio would accept. His boss cussed him in Italian and let Antonio have his way.

The screen of the phone flashed bright yellow-green, and Antonio picked it up, pressing talk.

"Well?" Pappa Joe's voice crackled over the line, and Antonio moved closer to the window for better reception.

"Well, I don't know what it is exactly that you want me to do, Pappa Joe. She's my kid alright, but I don't know anything about her, hopefully she'll not be a fuckin' liability." Antonio sweated as the other end went silent.

"If she's gonna be trouble, I don't wanna exposed both my son and myself to her." Pappa paused, then spoke again, his voice muffled by chewing. "Give her a week. Get the men to follow her and make sure they know where she is at all times. At the end, we'll deal with her which ever way is necessary. Oh and tell 'em to send Rocco to Joey Bevo, I need him to get something for me."

Antonio grimaced and dropped the phone back down to the desk as Pappa Joe hung up. Yeah, he knew that would be an option if necessary, that Lydia might have to be silenced permanently, but he hoped she would accept their offer. He drummed his fingers on the desk and snatched the phone back up, dialing one of the men who'd ridden with her.

"Josef, Pappa Joe called. You two are to keep an eye on her for the next week. Drop Rocco off and tell him to go to Joey Bevo's." Antonio hung up again, sliding the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown.

He could only chalk it up to curiosity, suggesting Lydia for Pappa Joe's purposes. It was hard enough finding women in this fuckin' town who wouldn't ask questions, and let the men handle their business. All this feminist Yankee shit. He'd probably assumed wrong about Southern women being more likely to submit to men and such, not knowing the real reason Margaret had left him in the first place. But he had been curious about her and decided that he could kill two birds with one stone.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

They dropped her off in front of her building, and Lydia shoved her hands into her coat. She stared at the splintered wood of the foyer door and found she couldn't move toward it. She had to forced her feet to move, verbally encouraging them. Step by step.

Her father was dangerous. She understood that. The door opened as some drugged out girl stumbled out, swearing at Lydia for being in her way. Lydia ignored her and started toward the stairs to her apartment on the fourth floor. She fingered the money in her pocket, then pulled the wad out and counted the bills. A thousand dollars cash. Who the fuck had money like that, that they could just hand it over like chump change to some strange girl they'd just met? Someone who wouldn't be easy to say no to.

Sighing, she tossed her keys and knitted hat on top of the TV and collapsed on the dingy couch. She couldn't be still, agitation coursing through her veins and making her heart pound. Who the fuck did they think they were? She moved to the window and looked out. The black car had returned, and she quickly pushed out her surprise. Of course it had. These guys were probably mobsters and into control, wanting her to do as they deemed, though she had no idea at this moment what that was.

Well, fuck them, she thought. Unfortunately, they knew where she was staying, and Lydia knew that if she stayed in this place, they'd just return for her. But the problem was where to go and how? She was pretty sure they would recognize the El Camino if she just drove off and moved. And if they were watching the front of her building, it wouldn't be too long before they figured out which apartment she was in. That was of course, if they hadn't already.

Lydia moved away from the window and smacked the top of the TV, knocking the keys off. She picked them back up, her face screwed up in frustration. There was a window in the bedroom, which she'd not wanted to go into due to the intensity of the vomit smell in there, but there was that window which opened into the alley way. She looked back out the living room window and studied the car. It was parked further enough down to not have a view of the alley, and Lydia figured out her method of escape. She picked up her Lynard Skynard ball cap and tucked all her hair beneath, pushing in the last remaining wisps as she secured it,

She ran to the bedroom, gagging as she opened the door. She ignored the weirdly shaped stains on the walls and carpet, crossing over to the window. Steeling her resolve, she pushed up the rusted window, reminding herself that whatever was on the window was less deadly than the men downstairs with the big ass guns.

She crawled out through the window and landed on the fire escape, wincing and glancing down toward the street when her feet banged loudly against the metal grating. "Fuck," she hissed, then relieved to see no one, she started the descent. Another dilapidated brick building shared the alleyway, and another alley ran behind her building toward another building of yellowish-tan brick. She dropped to the ground and ducked behind a dumpster as a car drove by. Her heart sounded loudly in her ears, and Lydia swallowed and peered around the side toward the street. Nothing.

Running back away from the street toward the rear of her building and the other shorter alley, she looked down toward the fire escape of the other building and ran toward it. At the end, she flattened her back against the wall and looked around the corner toward the front of her building, then looked the opposite way, noticing that this alley opened on a street at the other end.

Fuck.

Lydia moved back into the shadows and felt behind her for the gun, allowing the weapon to give her a little feeling of security. Voices yelled in the direction from which she'd just come, and Lydia froze. Italian voices. They'd figured out she'd gone already. They were watching closer than she'd thought.

Lydia dashed to her left around the corner and saw an open dumpster, trash bags piled around. Using the bags as steps, she grabbed the top edge and launched herself inside, nearly gagging on the smell. Again, better than death, she had to convince herself. Looking up at the open lids, she heard the voices getting closer, and she grabbed the lids, shutting them over her.

"Where the fuck did she go!"

Lydia heard the click of guns and thanked her lucky stars they'd not seen her, as it was apparent. She hoped they were too stupid to figure out her hiding place, and she sank deeper into the garbage, listening for them.

"Fuckin' cunt! Go back to the car, and we'll stake the place out. She couldn't have gone far."

Lydia pursed her lips with distaste and clasped her hands over her ball cap and head. She wouldn't be getting out anytime soon.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Pappa Joe Yakavetta, balding and short dark Italian mob boss, sat behind his desk in an office stacked nearly to the ceiling with brown cardboard boxes and gaudy Italian statues. He slammed the phone down. He never got good news. Insignifi-cunt little fucks.

Antonio had gotten this brilliant idea. Use Yakavetta's power and influence to track down his daughter. He only had the mother's name to go by, Margaret De Lira, but she'd been easy enough to find in New Orleans. Checked the birth records in New Orleans for 1977, and Lydia's name had popped up as the only De Lira with the mother Margaret.

He'd never thought of Antonio as the sentimental type before, and he still had his doubts in that regard. Mostly morbid curiosity, Yakavetta thought. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble over some bitch one of his men had fathered. But this was Antonio Distephano. Anthony, Antonio's father, had been underboss for Yakavetta's father, Carlo, so the two younger men were practically brothers. And until about five years ago, Antonio had been Pappa Joe's right hand man. But then he'd decided retirement looked good and asked to be relieved of his duties, preferring the quiet life of spending day after day in his dressing gown smoking cigars and drinking Cognac.

A stack of photos on his desk that one of his men had taken in New Orleans caught his attention once again. She was fuckin' beautiful, sexy...a real boner inspiring woman. And that was just in her casual clothes walking down the street. Josef, who'd actually gotten to see her live in the bar, had joked with the other soldiers about how he'd been hard for a week afterwards. He'd not dared say that in front of Antonio, Josef usually smarter than the rest about keeping his mouth shut when it counted.

They could use her for many things if need be. Bribe with the Russians, definitely more expendable than Yakavetta's own son Concezio, whom Yakavetta wanted to keep under their radar. Definitely more attractive bait, and if she died in the process, less of a problem for the family.

But now, things were looking to be an issue. The fuckin' girl had disappeared in just one afternoon, and the morons he'd hired to look after her had lost her in a fuckin' alley. Just vanished.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I don't own BOONDOCK SAINTS! There...I got that off my chest. Whew.**

**I am updating four chapters at the moment, since I was slack and didn't get a chapter up each week. Remember. I love constructive feedback, or any for that matter. :)**

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Lydia vomited. How long had she hidden in the dumpster? The days were blurred since she'd left her father's house. But she'd not dared to return to her apartment, knowing that eventually they would return there for her. Instead, she had climbed into the dumpster hidden between the two buildings, hers and the abandoned dilapidated brick next to it. The smell hadn't gotten any better, and she knew it was only luck that no one had come to throw out trash since she'd hidden there. Something squished beneath her hand as she shifted.

She vomited again.

Shivering in disgust, Lydia pushed the lid up, immediately blinded by daylight. The fresh air however helped to clear her senses.

Looking up and down the alley, Lydia didn't see anyone or the black BMW. Perhaps, they'd given up on her. She could only hope, but doubted it. She drug herself out of the rusty green box and landed on a pile of bags on the ground, realizing that it wasn't that no one had come to throw away trash, but that they were all too lazy to try and lift the black lid. Lydia rolled her eyes, then looked about at her surroundings. She didn't want to risk being seen by any of Yakavetta's people, so leaving the alley didn't cross her mind as a good idea, but there was a fire escape in front of her. All she had to do was find a way into the building, and she could hide in better comfort than the dumpster, until she could figure out a better plan.

Stumbling through the trash bags, she grabbed hold of the rusted bars of the stairs and hoisted herself up. All the way up, she thought, furthest away from the street. At each level she paused to peer inside the clouded windows. Nothing. She couldn't see a damn thing, and she exhaled in frustration. The squeaking and clanking of the metal stairs concerned her briefly till she reasoned that in all of Boston, if Yakavetta's men were on to her, they'd have come after her already, so she continued to the fifth level. The stench of the dumpster still clung to her, but at the moment she didn't care, only concerned with kicking out the pane of glass in the window of the fifth floor. On the final kick, she lost her balance and landed flat on her back on a lumpy mattress, momentarily stunned as her cap popped off and her hair blinded her.

"What the fuck..." some one with a thick accent cursed, while another who was laughing abruptly stopped.

Lydia blinked. She hadn't expect to find anyone, especially since she'd not been able to see anything through the glass. She took a breath and shoved her hair aside so she could see whose party she'd just crashed. She pursed her lips, then turned bright red. Two very naked, pale young men greeted her with shock. One standing by the door in nothing but his socks with a bag of ice held to his...personal parts, and the other on the floor grinning, just as a naked as the first.

"I...uh...uh..." Lydia stuttered unable to tear her eyes away.

"Well, lass...were ya sent from the Lord? Or do ya make a habit of fallin' into men's bedrooms while they're naked?" The one on the floor stood up, all his glory suddenly quiet more visible than before, while the other just huffed and sat down on the stuffing-exploded couch, easing down in pain, keeping the ice against his parts.

Lydia's face reddened further, and she turned head away, shielding her eyes with her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't know someone was in here."

The man on the couch lit a cigarette and started sucking on it. He exhaled and rolled his eyes. "Put some pants on, Murph, can't ya tell she's sick at the sight of ya fuckin' _huge _cock?"

Murphy grinned again and slipped on his jeans, buckling the belt before sitting on the bed adjacent to the one where she was still sprawled. Lydia was too stunned to think clearly. She closed her eyes and reacquainted herself with her current situation. Boston. Yakavetta and Antonio. Two naked men with accents. Her gun... Her eyes flashed open and she jumped up, fumbling for the gun in her pants, suddenly aware of just how far it had slid down her pants. Finally, frustrated, she shook her leg till the whole mess fell down her pant leg and on to the floor.

She grabbed it up, and the man on the couch gasped, "Holy FUCK!" And fell off the couch.

"Connor?" Murphy frowned when he realized what Lydia was doing and grabbed the gun out of her hand before she could figure out the holster in her exasperated state.

"Mother of God, lass, what ya got this for?" He gingerly held the gun away from him by the butt and studied her quizzically.

"Give it the fuck back," she growled, grabbing for it, though she was much shorter compared to his six-foot stature and couldn't reach it. She quickly got distracted by his appearance, dark short hair, muscled but not overly done, and deep blue eyes that winked at her when he realized she'd paused in her assessment.

"Oh fuck," exclaimed Lydia. "It's you two again!" The men from the bar, the phone booth. Her blood pressure rose. It was obvious that she could not escape them, and some twisted and amused god was forcing her into their presence, a little more detailed each time.

"And ya," Murphy muttered with chagrin. "What's a lass like ya doing packing this kinda heat? And falling through our windows, covering Connor's bed with glass...it's gonna be fucking uncomfortable for him for awhile, till all of it is gone, ya know." Murphy popped it open and emptied the bullets into his hand and pocketed them, handing her back the revolver.

"Fuck it all," Lydia gasped, looking for all the world like she wanted to punch him. She glanced over at Connor, still naked and recovered from the shock of her pulling out a weapon. He'd lost the ice and was reaching for his pants instead, making Lydia finally relax somewhat now that everyone had clothes on.

"Fuck it all is right, lass," Connor wrinkled his nose. "What's that stench on ya, eau de dumpster?" He leaned forward and sniffed her flannel shirt, then quickly back away and grabbed a beer off the cluttered table Lydia finally noticed. She glanced around, taking in the tattered couch, two chairs, table, ancient fridge and tv, and two mattresses on the floor. Toward the back of the room was a toilet and a line of showers like in a gym locker room. Everything was disgusting to her, but not that she had room to talk since it didn't smell like her, or her vomit apartment.

Sighing in defeat, she dropped back down to the glass covered mattress, twisting her cap in her hands, and felt her cheek moisten.

"Fuck ya, Connor, ya making her cry." Murphy bent down and squatted in front of her. "We've got a shower. No hot water, but at least ya'd be clean."

Lydia felt all the strength she'd mustered since leaving New Orleans drain away from her. Limply, she nodded.

"We'll even fix the curtain to close for ya," Murphy offered congenially.

Connor snorted and shook his head at his brother.

Lydia turned toward the blonder man, eyes wide. "I'm s..s..sorry for disrupting you...I'll leave, so you two can get back to...to..." She snapped her mouth shut, thinking about where she would even go.

"Get a shower, lass, and we'll assist you whatever ya need." Murphy stood and held out a hand to help her up. She took it and forced a smile. Warmth flooded her hand, and she tensed at the gentle sensation, pleasant compared to the men at her father's house. He didn't seem to have ulterior motivations behind the gesture.

He let her go and went to adjusting the shredded shower curtain that would only offer her a small degree of privacy, but then this wasn't a situation any of them had been prepared for. Murphy handed her a slightly damp towel and gestured toward the soap and shampoo on the floor below the showerhead.

"Thanks," she grumbled, waiting for him and his brother to turn away while she stepped behind the curtain. She left her clothes on the floor of the shower with her, hoping that maybe the water and soap would do something for them. Biting back a yelp when the frigid water hit her body, she shivered a few minutes before buckling down to the task of de-funkifying her body. She washed her hair four times before deciding it was good enough and scrubbed her skin pink. She poured out more shampoo over her clothes and rubbed the bar of soap over them, hoping that it would do anything for them. Stomping over the wrinkled wet mess, she ground them into the concrete floor, convincing herself it was no different from a washboard.

Finally, she turned off the water and wrapped the towel around her. Teeth chattering, she looked out at the two men sitting turned away from her and watching something old, black and white on the tv, beers and cigarettes in hand. They had dressed in black matching shirts and seemed oblivious to her presence.

"Excuse me..." She called out meekly. Afraid to disturb the scene of serenity, she clutched the towel tightly over her breasts and cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she called out more confidently.

Both men swung their heads around and stared at her. The corner of Connor's mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.

"I don't have any clothes."

Connor's smile widen, and Murphy smacked him in the back of the head.

"I'll get the lady some clothes, ya fuckin' cunt, I'll get 'em" Murphy stood and rummaged around beside his bed, finally pulling up a pair of sweats that looked fairly wrinkled, but not too dirty, and a black long sleeve sweater. "It's all I got at the moment, but should do for now. Ya have to forgive my brother; he doesn't quite understand how to _respect_ women..." Murphy's expression widened into a shit-eating grin at his brother's mumbled curses which sound a lot like, fucking macho Murph...stupid fucking cunt.

Lydia pursed her lips and thanked Murphy, taking the clothes and waiting for him to re-situate himself in front of the TV. The sweats threatened to fall down to her ankles; she pulled the string as tight as she could, and they still rode her hips, which she thanked god for being more generously endowed in the hips compared to other women. The sweater swallowed her, and she rolled the sleeves up. She hung her clothes up, not quite sure of what to do, knowing that she wasn't staying here, but had no where else to go.

"Well, lass, if ya need a beer, we've got 'em," Connor pointed at the fridge, and got smacked again. "I mean, here," he stood up and glared at Murphy, pulling one out and handing it to her when she finally sat on the couch, absently staring at the floor. He popped it open, and she thanked him, quickly downing it faster than she'd meant to. Closing her eyes, she let the infusion of alcohol calm her nerves.

"Seems ya'd a bit o' a rough day," Murphy clicked the TV off to Connor's annoyance and shot his brother a warning glance.

She nodded, and he handed her another beer. She downed that one just as fast, and reached for the third he offered. This one she sipped slowly. Her body finally began to warm.

"What is today?" She inquired, ignoring his comment.

"Saint Paddy's," Connor mumbled, "And we're supposed to be meeting the guys at McGinty's in fifteen."

"Saint Paddy's, I'd forgotten the date." She sighed and leaned back, the Zombie Queen would be filled to the gills with people, green filters over the lights, Irish music accompanying Gabby to her favorite "Irish" burlesque. Silly really, but half naked girls could really do anything and draw a crowd. All that seemed so distant now that she was in Boston. NOT that Gabby's dance was really Irish, but it definitely got the men at least a wee boner. She snorted and chuckled to herself.

"Well, she could come."

She finally registered Connor talking and studying her faraway expression. "I-I couldn't impose on your night..."

Connor snorted.

Murphy smacked him.

"If you didn't come, we'd be afraid ya might slip out on us before we learned what's going on with ya..." Murphy smiled but his eyes made it clear it wasn't for discussion. He picked up one of two rosaries hanging on nails beside the door and dropped it over his head, tucking the crucifix inside his shirt.

"Yeah, couldn't have a real lady left to her own devices," Connor muttered, grabbing the other rosary and his coat.

Murphy handed her his coat, which she refused, but quickly realized he'd not take that. "At least let me grab my money," and he pushed her out the door before she could protest further.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

"Connor, what the fuck's ya problem," Murphy confronted him after Lydia had entered the bar nervously. "Obviously something is fucked up here."

"No fuck, Murph, but I'm just gettin' a fucked up feeling about this. Something ain't fuckin' right..and I'm not sure its something we need to get fuckin' involved in." Connor lit his cig and sucked it down in three drags, then lit another. Murphy grabbed it from him and sucked it down before he could protest.

"Indifference of good men, brother, good men..." Murphy jabbed his next cig at the door. "It's what the monsignor was talking about. Something _is_ fucked up, and we probably can't imagine why a girl smelling like garbage would suddenly fall through our window. She obviously needs help. Don't forget what happened to Kitty Genovese. We can't just stand by and be indifferent."

Connor took a drag and eyed his brother thoughtfully, nodding his agreement. "Let's hope we can handle it then." He dropped the butt to the ground and stepped on it.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Lydia looked behind her and noticed that the boys had not followed her inside, shrugged and moved quickly to the bar. Doc stood behind it, dragging a cloth across the bar as he handed out pints of amber liquid. The bar was full, and she didn't see Bessie serving from behind the bar, or any of the tables. She considered asking again for work; she grimaced, remembering what she was wearing, but squared her shoulders and pushed through the crowd at the bar. A fat long haired guy winked at her, grunting his appreciation for the feel of her curves against him. Rolling her eyes, she flagged down Doc.

"Hey! I said, ARE YOU HIRING?" He appeared to be having trouble understanding her so she leaned in closer across the bar and inhaled sharply at the slight pinch and feel of a hand on her ass. "I'm looking for a job, and I saw you didn't have any help tonight...thought I might offer." The old man stared at her blankly, then grinned and shouted.

"C-C-Connor and M-M-Murphy! Lads clear away, clear away...l-l-let them sit."

Lydia frowned and looked behind her and realized that the hand on her ass had not been the needs-a-haircut guy but indeed Murphy. She ignored his grin and turned back to the bartender and repeated her request, adding, "Are you the owner?"

Setting two pints on the counter for the twins, he finally answered her, "Aye, lass...I-I own the place...ya be lookin' for a job?" He looked her up and down, taking in her obviously too big clothes, and she felt her skin flush.

"Yes sir, I just moved here and need a job. I've got experience in bartending and entertainment." She looked to her left and glared at Murphy, who openly stared at her, listening to her plea to the old man.

"Ya need help," Murphy suddenly spoke up after she turned back to speak again only to see that the older man had moved on.

Irritated she turned back to Murphy, "Fuck. Thanks..." She mumbled and sat on the stool next to him. She folded her arms on the bar and dropped her head against them. She bit her tongue when a hand patted her on the head.

"Hey fuck ass! Get me a drink!" Some guy Italian guy with shoulder length brown hair and a beard burst into the bar, and Murphy and Connor turned toward him, clearly friends with the man. They slapped him on the back, Connor starting up some sort of joshing with him.

Murphy, grinning, turned back to Lydia. "Lass, what ya want to drink?"

"Tequila, any is fine," she answered. She sat up and grabbed the shot glass in front of her and threw back the drink. "Another please," she called out, waving her glass in the air. Murphy grabbed the bottle off the counter and refilled it before she registered what he was doing.

"Hey, if ya want, I can talk to Doc myself...he'd do anything for Connor and me..." He poured another shot for her. "Ya used to work in a bar?" He set the bottle down in front of Lydia and started on his own pint of beer.

Lydia stared at him a moment, then looked beyond him at Connor and the man who sat between the brothers. He looked familiar, especially the scraggly hair and beard, but she couldn't quite place him. Murphy asked her again, and Lydia finally registered his question.

"Yep, not like this one, but pretty busy and packed every night," she frowned, imagining the Zombie Queen compared to this place. These men didn't seem like the type to throw money after girls dancing the way she did, and she doubted Doc would ever allow such a thing in his bar. From what she'd seen so far, most were interested in drinking and pool, and acting like boys on the playground.

"Where are you from anyway," Murphy held out his glass to Doc for a refill. "Ya sound southern...definitely not Boston."

"Nawlins, baby," she chuckled, feeling a little bit looser after her fifth shot, sitting a little straighter and tossing her black curls back. She poured a sixth and tossed it back.

Murphy arched an eye brow, watching this strange woman with curiosity. Despite her alcohol induced humor, there was still a hint of bitterness, and he could only imagine what had happened to make her desperate enough to spend any time in a dumpster. "And what brings ya to Boston?" He finally asked, finding himself caught up in examining the curve of her throat and the contrast of her black hair against her pale skin.

Lydia grunted non-committally before answering. "That, I'm still not sure of," she muttered reaching for the bottle a seventh time.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

McGinty's was finally quieting down after an unusually extra boisterous evening in honor of St. Patrick's day. Lydia had finally confined herself to a booth with her bottle of tequila, insisting that she needed some time to herself, and that they shouldn't allow her mood to dampen their evening. Murphy and Connor respected her point and sat at the bar,, between them the same Italian guy. Luckily, he'd not really noticed her, and neither of the twins had made any effort to expose her presence to the world. The bar was cloudy with smoke, and in Murphy's clothes, she didn't stand out. Except for the her at the booth and the six guys at the bar, the place was empty.

Doc was telling the remaining guys that he was having trouble with some Russians mob guys wanting to buy his place, and so far he'd refused them. The men at the bar groaned, and the Italian guy mentioned something about how his boss might be able to do something about it.

"Fucking Rocco..." Connor's pleasant laugh rang out toward her ears now that the noise had mostly died down.

Her heart thumped. The driver of her father's car. Her panic was quickly pushed away by the sudden appearance of three very large men between her and the guys at the bar. Their presence was quickly assessed by the men, and she sensed something unpleasant would soon begin between them.

"Come on man, it's Saint Paddy's. Join us for a drink," Murphy offered a flag of truce in good nature as the Russians ordered them to leave, all except Doc, no doubt planning to try and convince Doc to agree through violent measures.

"Fuck you," the Russian leaned forward into Murphy's face.

Huddling down further into her seat, she took a swig from her bottle and noticed Connor's eyes flick towards her, a silent warning for her to remain quiet. He didn't need to worry about that, she thought. She'd had enough of forceful and pushing men today. However, this exchange wasn't lost on the tall men, whose accents reminded her of Boris from Bullwinkle. The Russian on the left turned toward her, giving Rocco a clear shot at her face. Recognition and confusion registered on Rocco's face. His lips moved silently, but she could make out her name, Connor's head twitching toward Rocco then back at the Russians.

"What, fuck iz this?" The Russian barked, storming toward her. "This fuckin' bitch with you?" He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the booth. Lydia clenched her teeth, fighting against the urge to make any sound. Flailing her arms, trying to get a hold of his arm, she only managed to piss the huge man off, and he slammed her head against a table, momentarily stunning her as he brought her in front of the guys at the bar. She could only see Connor's hands and noticed them visibly clench. Clearly, he wasn't as against her as she thought, or perhaps he saw her more as an added problem.

"You, go now!" The Russian jerked her head as he pointed toward the door. She could feel strands of hair tearing from her skull and ground her teeth against each other.

"Hey, calm the fuck down, and let her go," Connor voice was strangely calm, like the eye of a hurricane before it got deadly. The Russian's fist only tightened on her hair, and Lydia couldn't help the little yelp.

Someone was talking about someone's commie mother sucking cock and then the smack of a fist against flesh. The hand in her hair pulled her back further while someone else rattled something off in Russian, or so she guess. Then all she felt was her body flying against the floor and someone shove her back.

"Fuckin' stay there." She couldn't tell who it was, but she was sure it was either Connor or Murphy.

The haze of the alcohol caught up with her, her mind and eyes blurring against the noise and flurry of bodies. She screamed, feeling her back for the missing gun as someone grabbed her arm and her pushed back again. She kicked and felt her foot connect with someone who cursed her in Russian. Glass shattered around her, and the world swirled away into a deeper surreality. Hot breath growled in her ear and she tensed, before she recognized the voice.

"Lydia Distephano?" It wasn't growling, just confusion and rough from fighting; the man, Rocco, she assumed, pulled her back and pushed her into the booth. He had a swollen black eye, and she focused, then gasped, looking behind him. Someone had tied a Russian to the bar, and Connor was pouring a bottle of bourbon over his ass. Flames shot up as he flicked his cigarette at the man's extra large posterior.

"Fuck..." Rocco was still focused on her, and she finally drew her attention back to him. "What the fuck are you doing here? And with Connor and Murphy?" She blinked, not quite understanding him.

Suddenly, everything crashed down on her, and she screamed, kicking at him, punching, flailing, aiming for anything sensitive she could connect with. Rocco cried out in pain, doubling over and attracting the attention of his friends.

Murphy crossed the room, laughing while Connor assisted the others with helping the Russians to the door. "Fucking Rocco, I thought only Connor got his ass kicked by girls." Lydia flinched and pulled away from both of them, distrust crossing her features. Murphy caught her expression of fear before she masked it with anger.

"What's wrong, Rocco?" Murphy addressed his friend while assessing the bump on her head where the Russian had banged her into the table. It wasn't big, but there would be a bruise.

"I...I think I know this woman. How'd you know her?" Rocco clutched his crotched and limped to the booth backed to hers.

Connor joined them after saying bye to their friends and sat opposite Lydia. "Fuck, Murph, we still haven't even gotten her name." He lit a cig and passed it to Rocco who looked overly grateful, and lit another.

Murphy's gaze never wavered from Lydia's.

"Lydia...De Lira..." She paused, looked at Rocco's confusion, then amended, " Lydia Distephano according to this fucker..." She hooked her thumb towards Rocco. Murphy's presence calmed her.

"Antonio Distephano, retired underboss since Vincenzio took over for Yakavetta..." Rocco spilled to Murphy and Connor's side glances in his direction, "Antonio is apparently her father. I've heard a bit about it from listening in. She'd been living in New Orleans with her mother, a Creole who'd left him before she was born. They brought her back to Boston, Lydia, but I'm not too clear why..."

Doc brought them each a drink. "B-b-b-boys, I-I-I gotta l-l-lock up soon."

"It's alright Doc, we'll get out soon, thanks." Murphy poured her drink first, then passed the bottle to the others.

The elderly man walked away, cursing, "FUCK! ASS!"

Murphy gave her an apologetic look and refilled her glass.

"Why'd they bring ya to Boston, Lydia?" Connor drained his glass and set it down, leaning back in his seat and watching her.

Lydia swallowed. "It's a fuckin' mystery to me, and I don't really want to find out. I'm beginning to doubt my intelligence at coming in the first place."

Connor flicked ashes into the tray on the table, held the cigarette down a moment before bringing it back to his lips. He inhaled, allowing the nicotine to wash over him. "Something must have concerned ya, if ya decided a dumpster was better than a normal apartment."

"Rocco, what is ya level of involvement? Do ya think they are aware of her disappearance yet?" Murphy wrapped a piece of ice from his drink in a napkin and held it to her head.

Rocco looked up at Murphy and studied his friend for some sort of emotional giveaway. Connor's expression was equally as blank while they waited for his answer. Lydia withdrew into herself.

"All I am is the package boy, driver...I don't know fucking shit." He paused. Added, "And I won't fucking say a word, guys..." He finished off his whiskey.

Lydia dropped her gaze downward, feeling a bit more helpless than a mouse in a den of cats, concentrating on the celtic cross tattooed the length of Murphy's right forearm. How'd she miss that before? It was huge. She looked up, and he'd turned his head to Connor, saying something she didn't register. She noticed the tattoo of the Virgin on his neck, just below his ear. Her gaze drifted to Connor, responding to his brother, hand flat against the table while they argued. She let her eyes take him fully in. His tattoos matched his brother's, except the unfamiliar words tattooed across the their hands along the pointer fingers.

Connor stopped talking and turned his attention to Lydia. "We need to go," he reached for her hand and pulled her from the booth after him, Murphy shoving Rocco after them. "Doc, we're outta here!" Connor called out as they left through the front door into the freezing dark night.

Lydia barely caught FUCK! ASS! before the door slammed shut behind them.

"Man, fuckin' Murphy, let me go," Rocco jumped about with agitation.

Shivering, she barely registered someone wrapping a thick black coat around her before she glanced up at Connor studying her with sympathy, the last thing she'd expected from him. Warmth flooded her body from the tenderness she'd witnessed in his blue eyes.

"I don't know what the fuck is going on," Rocco continued. "...Murph, but Yakavetta's probably looking for her. It's been nearly three days since she disappeared from Antonio's house..." She winced as it dawned on her how much time she'd lost. "He may not know where she is now, but it won't be long before he comes looking around. Her place is the building next to yours."

Lydia looked across the way at the phone booth. A beacon of light in front of her place. She pulled away from Connor and stepped out into the street toward it. She jerked back suddenly against Connor's hard chest and winced.

"Where are ya goin', lass?" Connor murmured softly, concern in his voice. She refused to meet his eyes and pulled away. She made her intentions clear, storming across the street to the phone booth, digging around in the pocket of Connor's coat before realizing it wasn't hers.

"!" She let off a flurry, kicking the booth door multiple time before dropping to her knees and vomiting all she'd drunk into the gutter. Murphy squatted beside her and pulled her hair back.

"Fuckin' girl, come on, lets get out of here. Before we all freeze," Connor growled. She heard Rocco cry out as Connor drug him off, obviously soliciting some sort of oath from him.

Murphy pulled her closer to him, and she melted against his warmth. "Let's get inside, and sleep off the night. Rocco won't cause you any trouble, he's a good man. We can figure things out in the morning."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Song is Billie Holiday's You're my Thrill.**

**Murphy's biblical reference is Numbers 35:31**

Connor'd flipped his bed over and offered it to her for the night, taking the couch himself, opening Lydia's eyes to a whole different side of him. Murphy gave up his blanket. She'd heard them whispering for a while after she'd laid down, but it was all lost on her as her mind wandered into sleep.

Morning light flooded the room, and she sat up, stretching and yawning. Connor was already up on the couch and had the decency to look embarrassed at his lack of clothing, except for his boxers and boots, which he was in the process of slipping on. She turned away, only to be greeted by the same image of Murphy, except for the cig hanging between his lips and the left over beer in his hand. Both looked as if a truck of whiskey had hit them. Connor's groan jostled her from admiring Murphy's shoulders and chest, that she hoped registered as a blank stare. She turned again and watched Connor shrug into his dingy robe and wander to the toilet at the back of the room. She concentrated on Murphy again. He smiled and offered her his beer. She took it, figuring they had to have less germs than the fucking dumpster.

"Well, Lydia, feeling better this morning?" His voice blocked out the sound of his brother pissing, only to remind her of her own need that morning.

"Fuck," she winced, "I need a piss."

Murphy smiled at Connor's snort.

Connor flushed. "All ya's darlin'."

She groaned and forced herself from the bed. It had been bliss compared to all her other nights in Boston.

She hid her concern at the state of the toilet, and forced herself to give them some credit for even living in a place like this, as she'd been forced to do the same when she arrived. She stared at the toilet for a while before anyone noticed she'd not moved.

"Hey Murphy, flip on the TV," Connor casually remarked, ignoring her presence, and she smiled as Murphy turned up the volume. Such gentlemen after all, she noted. She pulled down the sweats, took care of her business, a sigh of relief escaping her lips, and flushed. She turned on the shower and washed her hands, then check to see if her clothes were any less smelly. A smile spread across her lips, and the day looked a little brighter. They were dry, and considerably improved in smell.

She stripped and bathed, no longer concerned with the twins stealing peeks, though she probably should have.

Connor nudged his brother with his foot, distracting Murphy from Andy Griffith. "What..." Murphy stopped as Connor pressed his finger to his lips. Murphy turned toward where Connor pointed. He felt his boxers tighten. "Fuck..." he whispered.

"You're my thrill, you do something to me,

you send chills right through me, when I look at you,

'Cause you're my thrill..." Lydia shivered in the frigid water.

She'd not gotten the curtain quite right, and from their position, her Creole curves and black hair were plainly visible. It was beside the point that she'd relaxed and was swaying her hips suggestively to her song. Her voice was garbled by the water, but the sight of her still proved to be more than either Connor or Murphy could tear their eyes away from.

"When I look at you, I can't keep still...'cause you're my thrill..." Soapy bubbles slid down her back, over her rounded firm butt, and her thighs down to the floor to pool in a mass around her feet. She reached up to scrub her hair, turned and blinked her yes open, the song morphing into a screamed.

"What the fuck!" She grabbed the towel and scowled. Then blushed. What was the big deal? She'd danced way more provocatively for a crowd of men and women, and these were just two guys who'd proven to be gentlemen. Like Brent.

"Sorry," mumbled the two at the same time, turning away quickly.

Lydia's expression soften as she wrapped the towel around her, and the two men knew enough to look ashamed. She pulled on her clothes and gathered up her gun and bullets. Lydia smiled and sat on the couch beside Connor, not quite ready to tell them everything, but feeling more at ease. She pulled out her gun and began reloading it, holstered it, and stuck it back into the back waistband of her pants.

"I'm going into the hall, just a moment to myself," she finally sighed and stood. Murphy and Connor refused to meet her eyes. "OH fuck you, guys...it was only fair. I'd seen both of you naked already." Someone snorted as she stepped into the hall and shut the door.

"Hello, bitch." Cold steel pressed into her back just above her revolver. She couldn't reach it, and she felt someone move it out from her pants and toss it to the side, the holster muffling the clatter the metal would have made.

Fuck, she thought.

"Quiet, bitch. We know who you are now." A second voice passed by her as the Russian reached for the door, gun drawn. A third man stood to the side as she was drug toward the stairs.

Last she heard, "Get up you fuckin' Irish faggots!" as her head slammed against a wall, and everything went dark.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

It was still dark, and Lydia couldn't figure out how everything had gone wrong, yet again. It was really starting to piss her off now. What the fuck had she done to deserve being fucked over by men. Her mother had been right. Only good man she could remember...well, two. Brent and grandfather Raul. Well, and those two Irish angels she vaguely remembered. Had she dreamed it all?

Lydia tried to get up, but found herself unable to move, confined somehow. In a box? Was she dead?

She threw her body around, and realized that only her feet and hands were bound, and that she didn't hit the sides of anything. And it was soft beneath her. Like carpet. She listened a moment, suddenly hearing voices. They were coming from her left, but muffled. Someone was angry, yelling in something that reminded her of the Russians. It made her heart pound. It had really being happening. The Russians had come looking for revenge after the bar fight. And had ... said something...something like...

"_We know who you are now_."

Lydia froze. Someone's footsteps shuffled against the carpet and light flooded the room. She blinked, adjusting to the light and realized she was lying on the floor to the side of a beige covered bed. Beneath the bed, she could look across to brown leather shoes.

"Fuck," someone cursed further in Russian before she felt rough hands grab at her hair and throw her on to the bed. "Italian bitch," the guy mumbled. He walked out, and she listened through the door he'd left open. A fat guy was screaming at a group of men sitting on a circular couch with the angry guy in the middle of the group. Her Russian approached the angry man, who turned toward the open door and smiled. Her skin crawled again.

Her Russian came back and jerked her off the bed, leading her to the angry man. His smile turned lecherous, as he made some comment in Russian, causing the other's to laugh. She squeaked when he suddenly grabbed her breast, squeezing as if testing a peach at the market.

"You, Distephano girl," the man started, getting her familial affiliation correct. "Your father''s been looking for you. Now we can negotiate..." He rattled something off in Russian again. "Your father either comes to agreement, or you become part of Russian slave trade."

Lydia paled. She'd read about that in the National Geographic. Nasty business, that now was proving to be more real than a few fuzzy faces and photos in a magazine.

Light glinted off the boss's greasy hair, and she swallowed the urge to vomit. She recovered as another man spoke up in Russian, only making out the word Irish from his commentary. The boss frowned and started yelling again.

What had happened to Connor and Murphy, she felt her stomach sink, and her body hit the floor as she watched the Russian boss crumple to the floor and the quiet gunshots of silencers bounce off the walls and the cut off alarms of the Russians.

The prayers seemed like a dream to her mind, her eyes closed, hoping that whoever was in the room would take no care for her. A false hope, but one she indulged in.

"Fucking hell, that was easier than I thought," Lydia over heard after recovering her senses. She rolled over, struggling against her ropes, then stilled at the sound of guns cocking and staring up to masked men in matching pea coats. "Lydia!" Both masks came off, and she felt her heart leap. They were okay...ttheir guns dropped to their sides as they knelt to remove her ropes.

She noticed the bandages around Connor's wrists and looked at him.

"Long story, darlin', one we'll have to save."

Murphy had already moved and was dancing around, clearly pleased with himself. "Fuckin' hell, Connor, we're good."

Connor grinned, turning around and pushing his hair back with a gloved hand. "So much easier than anticipated." He caught sight of a little black case, "Now I wonder what's in that little case there." Grinning, both guys shoved each other to get to it first.

Lydia felt forgotten as she watched the two brothers finger the money in the case and sniff it. "Guys," she started, drawing their attention back to her. She rubbed her fingers absently over her rope burns and took in the scene. The blood bath of dead Russians. Red pooled around the bodies, splattering of chucks across from Yuri, and the pennies in each dead man's eyes. Then back at her saviors. Had they come looking specifically for her? She seemed only an afterthought to them after they'd even realized she was there. Perhaps it had not occurred to them she'd been taken by the Russians. Perhaps they'd thought she had just left.

"Lass," Connor's arms were suddenly wrapped around her. "You can't seem to stay out of trouble."

Murphy kissed her forehead, and she felt very much like a child with two fathers...not a woman who was used to handling everything herself.

A knock on the door jostled them all, Connor pulling away and putting back on his mask, gun cocked and poised as he checked the door. Murphy shoved her down behind the couch and joined his brother at the door. She could hear their chuckles before the door slammed and everyone was yelling again. Curious, she looked up and saw Rocco on the floor between them as they threatened to shoot him. Oddly, he was dressed in a hotel uniform, and looked like he was about to piss his pants. One of the brothers was waving a silver revolver around, stomping and generally looking pissed, before joining the other back on the floor, guns pointed under Rocco's chin. For a moment, Lydia began to doubt her ability to judge people. Then both men pulled off their masks and started laughing about what a dumb fuck Rocco was.

Lydia exhaled and stood from her position behind the couch. Rocco jumped around cursing, the other two laughing.

She began to feel that anger again. The anger that someone was fucking with her, and she was tired of it. "What the fuck is going on here? Where the fuck did you guys get guns and shit from? None of this was in the apartment...and what the FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!"

Connor looked up from his drink, poured from a decanter on the Russian's counter. He frowned at his brother who sighed with an expression of why me.

Murphy slapped on his most charming smile and spread his arms walking toward her. "We've found divine inspiration, a calling from God per se. _**Moreover ye shall take no satisfaction for the life of a murderer, which is guilty of death: but he shall be surely put to death**_." He grabbed her in a hug and kissed her. And not just the gentle one on her forehead, but on the lips, deep and hard. She could hear Rocco and Connor chuckle behind him.

Her lips and face burned.

"...we're going to rid the world of evil men." Murphy finished. His handsome face lit up with divine righteousness, and Lydia found it hard to question his motives. He kissed her again, even less chastely than the last, leaving her breathless as he sauntered away.

She wasn't religious. Despite the number of Catholic, and non-Catholic, churches in New Orleans, she'd never been in one. She was ambivalent toward it all cause it certainly added charm and character to the sin pit of the Crescent City. But despite her Spanish and French European Catholic heritage, her grandfather and mother had never found it important enough to keep it a part of their lives. But as she watched the rosaries bouncing against Connor and Murphy's chests as they moved around the room, something akin to religious terror seemed to briefly take hold.

"Murphy, you're gonna fucking kill her at this rate," Connor chuckled again, calmer than his brother, and definitely more reserved. He crossed his arms and studied her. "Lydia, we killed the Russian guys from the bar, after they threatened us. It was self defense, they were going to shoot Murphy in the alley between our buildings. I was strapped around the toilet while they carried him off, and then the shit hit the fan..." Connor's eyes darkened dangerously as he considered the potential death of his twin. "We hadn't time to think about what had happened...to you," his blue eyes deepened further. "Once we had taken care of those fuckers, we had somewhat of an idea of what happened to you."

She looked to Rocco, and realized he knew just as little as she did.

"What the fuck, Murph and Con..." Rocco was silenced by Connor's signal.

"Let's get the fuck out of here first," Murphy added, grabbing Rocco. "We'll meet back at Rocco's place.

Connor stayed back with Lydia, gripping her arm. "Come on, lass, we need to leave." He pushed her in front of him and out of the hotel room.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Left over pizza, booze, and guys still hyped up on testosterone couldn't wrestle Lydia from her sleep. But the gunshot did. She drug herself from Rocco's couch and gagged at the sight of blood and exploded cat on the wall beside the table. She recovered.

"Did that just fucking happen..." Murphy cried out, as Rocco questioned whether or not the cat was actually dead.

"What the fuck," she bumped into Connor, banging her head against his hard back. He turned engulfing her, shielding her from the scene. Too bad she'd already seen worse now, twice. She pushed him off and stared at the splatter of cat chunks and blood.

"Rocco's fuckin' shot the cat," Murphy answered her, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the table and took a swig, then handed it to her.

Lydia drank and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, turning her attention to the table covered in pizza and beer cans. All three men were lit, their eyes hazy. She rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen to grab rags and soapy water.

She handed each guy a rag and pointed at the wall. "Clean it the fuck up. That shit's gonna stink by morning if you don't." Connor and Murphy frowned but didn't argue, and Rocco had the decency to look ashamed. The three got to work, their rags quickly turning red, and though they worked at it, the green wall would be permanently bloodstained unless someone repainted.

Everyone agreed that Rocco deserved chunk detail, and the Italian grimaced as he picked at brains, bone, and blood soaked fur, chucking them into a garbage bag.

Lydia fiddle around in the kitchen looking for tape and found a magazine. She ripped out a picture of an idyllic farm scene and taped it to the wall Murphy had been drying.

"That'll really distract Rocco's girl..." Murphy chuckled, and Lydia punched him in the arm none too softly.

"I'm not the dumb ass fucker that shot the cat cause I was acting like a 15 year old boy drinking for the first time," Lydia replied without an edge of emotion in her voice.

Rocco looked up sharply and glared at her, while Connor and Murphy both snorted, trying not to laugh.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Lydia fell asleep on the couch curled up opposite a snoring Murphy. Rocco had crashed on the floor with Connor not too far away. She barely registered Connor and Rocco leaving the room, but flicked her eyes open when Murphy sat up and pushed away from the couch. He winced at the light coming through the windows and rubbed his eyes. He turned away from her and reached for his shirt that he'd pulled off sometime in the night, and she studied his back, feeling that same heat from before fill her. He had two demons tattooed on his right shoulder.

"Why do ya have those," she whispered, her fingers touching them and stilling Murphy. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he paused in pulling his shirt on. "Does Connor have them?" Her fingers traced a wing.

"They're for friends. Memorials kinda, I guess." Murphy dropped his shirt down and grabbed his rosary off the window sill behind the couch as she pulled away her hand. She folded her hands in her lap. "While I was in a rough place in Ireland. And no, Connor doesn't have 'em, he wasn't close to 'em like I was." He stood and moved from the couch, shaking cans to see which still had a bit of beer in them. He found one and drank it down.

Lydia looked away and stared at the red stain on the wall next to the table. She could feel his eyes studying her. "What are you going to do now?" Her question broke the silence.

Murphy immediately understood. "Well, I don't know." He paused, cocked his head and watched her again. "Ya don't seem too upset about this situation."

Lydia looked up. There was something fucked up about how Murphy had gone on about God calling them to kill the Russians, though she had benefitted from their violence. She was still horrified by Yuri Petrov's declaration. "Anyone who actively sells women into sexual slavery, or others for that matter, deserves a thousand times worse death." Her eyes glittered with anger.

Murphy grinned, then frowned. "Are ya afraid of us," he moved back beside her. "We'd never hurt ya." His voice softened to a whisper as he touched her hand, wrapping his callused fingers around hers.

Lydia tensed, then relaxed, leaning against him, and she felt his hand tighten around hers, a soft kiss planted on top her raven curls. He was hot through his shirt, and Lydia couldn't help feeling safe against him. Yakavetta, the Russians, Brent and her mother, all felt like distant memories in his presence, and her eyelids grew heavy.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

She shot up out of her sleep to see Rocco returning from somewhere screaming, strange women beside her on the couch shouting back at him. Connor and Murphy were scrambling around in the kitchen as she sprang away from the couch, Rocco threatening to shoot himself over the fucking cat.

"What the fuck," she asked, dashing up and grabbing more of their things to help pack.

"We've got to go, come on," Connor grabbed her arm roughly, shoving her through the door in front of him without an explanation. Murphy followed behind them. Rocco jumped around, agitated and panicked, running his fingers through his hair.

"Did anyone see ya, Rocco..." Connor shoved his back into the back seat floorboard.

"Fuck man, I might has well have gone around posting fliers..." Rocco ran his hands through his hair as his forehead banged against the car roof.

"Liberating isn't it..." Murphy laughed, helping Lydia into the backseat beside Rocco.

"Let's fucking go," Connor banged on the roof of the car from inside.

The car started moving, Murphy reaching into his bag for a gun. He popped out the empty clip and loaded it with another. "Lydia, fucking take this." He handed her one of his Glocks, and started unbuckling his shoulder holster. He tossed it into her lap along side the gun and bent his head back down toward the floor board. Rocco hollered out for the car to stop and Connor braked, slamming Murphy's head into the dash.

"Fuckin' a, Connor!" Murphy sat up rubbing his forehead and smacked his brother in the arm. "Watch what ya bloody doin'."

Lydia didn't have to be told twice to take the gun, and quickly strapped on the holster beneath her coat, struggling to tighten it. She slid the gun home, clicking the safety in place for good measure. Last thing she wanted was to accidently shoot off a boob in the heat of battle.

Connor punched his brother in the arm, while Rocco explained about some guy named Vincenzo and jacking off to some titty dancer.

"Well, I don't know," replied Connor.

"Well, who makes the fuckin' cut, I mean?" Rocco bounced agitatedly in his seat, slapping the backs of Connor and Murphy's seats.

"We don't really have a way of deciding, those first two just kinda fell in our laps." Murphy leaned back in his seat and glanced at Connor who was calmly smoking his third cigarette.

"Me! I'm your guy! I have phone numbers, addresses," Rocco counted off all he knew, "I know who they're fuckin'!"

"Well?" Murphy looked at his brother again.

"I'm strangely comfortable with it." Connor replied reaching down to shift into drive.

"Who's this guy you're talking about?" Lydia interrupted the conversation, and Murphy eyed her. Rocco paused and looked at her like she'd just appeared beside him.

"Yakavetta's underboss." Connor answered her, turning his head to check his left blind spot and pulling away from the curb.

Rocco nodded frantically, "Fuckin' hell, and that mother fucker, he's the biggest sleaze bag of them all!"

Connor and Murphy looked at each other, while Lydia fingered the weapon Murphy had given her. She cleared her throat and the three men looked at her.

"What happens to Yakavetta if Vincenzo dies? How does that fuck with his family?" Lydia looked down, examining her nails as it registered with the guys what her involvement in this situation would mean.

"Lydia, we need to find a different apartment, and now. Then, I think we can discuss this further," Murphy finally found her .32 revolver and looked up while handing it to her. "We know this is personal for ya and won't keep anything from ya."

Lydia swallowed and nodded. "Let me find the apartment, you guys keep a low profile. Wouldn't want you getting pegged by anyone." She saw their momentary hesitation, but they finally agreed and dropped her off in front of an inconspicuous brick building on a side street quite a few blocks from their original places. It wasn't as far as Lydia would have liked, but she could hope that it was under Yakavetta's radar, at least for now.

Lydia pulled her collar up further around her face and tugged the bill of her ball cap down, shifting her gaze around the area before entering the green faded doors. Inside, she found a number for the landlords and returned to the car.

"I'll need to call from a phone booth," Lydia started. Rocco instantly pulled out a cell and handed it to her. "Thanks," she headed back into the building for privacy. Stairs led up either side of the foyer, five black rusty mail boxes lined one wall. Most of the numbers were missing, but names had been attached. There were only three with names on them. Checking around a bit more, she walked up the stairs and discovered two apartments on the left, two on the right and that the other stairs led straight up to the same hall. The fifth apartment was directly at the rear of the building. The number rang, but no one answered. She left a message for a call back and made her way back to the car.

"What did you find," Murphy asked, all three of the men clouding the car with their cigarettes. Lydia slid into the back next to Rocco.

"I'm keeping this for now. Anyone calls for you directly, I doubt you'll want to answer it." Rocco nodded his agreement. "I think this is our only opportunity for a place. Rent appears cheap, too." She jumped as the phone rang in her hand, the number of the landlords appearing right away, "everyone quiet," She listened a moment. "Yes, ma'am. Single, female...no pets. Got it. I can meet you today" ...pause... "...I need to move in right away if possible." She smiled. "Thank you." She clicked the phone shut and gave it to Rocco.

"We've got a place boys."

Connor finally smiled for the first time since he'd gotten up off the floor that morning at Rocco's.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

"FUCK!" Yakavetta threw the cell phone across the room, smashing it into smithereens against the wall. The Lakeview Deli was a fuckin' blood bath. The old man who ran the place was shot four times, and Josef and Carl were dead. Carl shot in the head and Josef in the chest. Another fuckin' blood bath, and it was rumored that it was Rocco.

The fuckin' moron was actually offing his guys as revenge for the botched job with the Russians. There was no fuckin' way Rocco had actually pulled off such an assassination, but Yakavetta couldn't figure out another option. The cunt was supposed to be dead. The Russian Yuri Petrov was supposed to be dead, and no questions asked.

But now Rocco was still alive, and there were too many cops asking questions that should never have been brought up.

Add that to the issue of Lydia, the bitch they still couldn't find but had been seen with Rocco in that fuckin' pub he loved. They'd received word that somehow the Russians had figured her out and gotten her, but now...she was gone again, and Yakavetta was pretty sure she wasn't dead, an issue that was just getting to be more of a concern for him.

Too fuckin' bad this wasn't the movies...he'd just off Antonio like Freddy Corleone-for fuckin' up his day.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Song referenced is "Mad World" by Tears for Fears**

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

The lady who owned the building met Lydia in the foyer, a copy of the lease in hand. Lydia handed the woman cash, that which Antonio had given Lydia, for the deposit and month's rent. A pleasant smile and the woman handed her the key to the apartment, plus a spare.

"You seem like a darlin' girl," the elderly lady smiled and pocketed the money. "Remember apartment five at the back. One bedroom."

Lydia returned the smile and nodded. The woman walked out the door and down the sidewalk to her car. Lydia followed her and watched her drive away from the curb. A block down the street Rocco's '87 shit-brown Sentra pulled up, and she walked over and leaned through the window.

"We're in," she grinned, dangling the keys in front of Murphy.

She stepped back and the boys climbed out of the car, black bags in hand. Lydia led them inside and up the stairs to the back. Nervously, she wiggled the key till it popped, opening the door and ushering them in first. The whole apartment was painted bright white, tile floors in the kitchen and bathroom were white, and the carpet dull tan. Only the counters offered a break from the lack of color with pale green formica. Nothing else, no furniture, just a fridge and stove. "Water and power'll be on tomorrow she said." Lydia poked her head into the bathroom, her spirits rising at the prospect of privacy.

"What did she say about our neighbors?" Connor called from the kitchen.

"Nothing much," Lydia answered, casting a quick glance around the bare bedroom. Just a closet in the far right corner. "Just one Irish old lady in the front right apartment. Deaf as a post she said."

Murphy and Connor dropped their bags on the counter, pulling out their guns and ammo. Rocco went to each window, examining the angle of the street and alley from the apartment. Lydia returned from her exploration.

"Well, lass," Murphy looked up from his gun, clicking it back to ready and back into the holster. "I suppose we should get to the point now."

Connor continued with cleaning his gun, while Rocco finally calmed enough to sit against the wall and stare absently in their direction. After the rush of killing three guys, Rocco had finally hit his low and had gone into a catatonic state.

Lydia paused long enough to take off her coat and lay it on the counter beside their bags. She leaned back and grabbed the cigarette out of Murphy's mouth and finished it off, coughing half way through it and turning green.

"Smoke much?" Connor chuckled, lighting another cigarette each for the three of them.

Lydia remained silent, allowing the nicotine to calm her and wishing it was a bottle of whiskey or tequila instead. She'd smoked briefly in high school, trying to be cool and fit in, but had quit, turning to alcohol as her preferred drug. "I don't fuckin' get it." She took another drag, beginning to look like a pro at it. "What the fuck would these guys want with me? It's not like Antonio is really expecting a relationship with me after 25 years..." She flicked the butt of the cigarette into the sink where it burned itself out.

"Yeah, from what I hear the guys involved with Yakavetta aren't exactly the Hal-mark types." Connor wiped a cotton cloth soaked in oil across the barrel of his Glock. "But why go through the trouble of getting someone like ya, who knew nothing of them before and wasn't a risk, especially without knowing how ya'd react to it all."

"Yakavetta's not exactly Einstein." Murphy popped his magazine out, reloading it and snapping it back into place.

"All I know," Lydia replied, watching Rocco for any sign of life, "is that my mother hated Antonio, still does, and told me for my entire childhood that he was dead. Whether or not she'd expected this, I don't know, but right now I don't care about anything but ensuring that he doesn't reinsert himself in her life or mine." Looking back toward the brothers, she caught Murphy watching her. "I'm just not sure of the costs and risks that will mean."

"Yakavetta may not be fuckin' brilliant, Murph, but he is dangerous. I mean look at fuckin' Rocco. They were expecting him to be dead by now, and not only is he NOT dead, but he took out three of their wise guys." Connor replaced his gun in the holster and leaned a hip against the counter, crossing his arms. His stomach rumbled, and he looked around the kitchen/living-room area fully aware there'd not be any food "I'm gonna grab pizza from down the street. Anyone have preferences?"

Lydia and Murphy shook their heads, both knowing they'd just be grateful to eat at this point.

"Rocco, ya're fuckin' coming with me," Connor grabbed Rocco, who cussed him out as he was dragged out the door.

The apartment became oppressively quiet after Connor and Rocco left, leaving Lydia alone with Murphy. Neither said anything, just contemplated the bluish white tile of the kitchen floor.

A moment of silence passed between them, before he broke it. "What was ya life like in New Orleans?" He went and sat on the carpet in the living room and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles.

She raised her head a bit and studied him sitting with his back against the wall, feeling self conscious of his intensity.

"Well..." she blushed thinking about how to explain to this man what she'd done. Would he see her as part of the porno industry like the titty dancer Rocco had mentioned? Or would he be able to see the art behind Brent's theatre? "I was a dancer.. In a Burlesque theater."

"I don't think I am familiar with that...what's ..." he paused as realization hit him. "Never-mind, I think I do know after all. Like the Moulin Rouge I've read about?" He tugged at the front of his jeans and shifted uncomfortably. Murphy smiled, "That explains what you were doing in the shower the other day."

"Yeah, sorta..." She resisted a smile and continued, "The man I worked for is a great guy, treats all of us well, like we're talented artists...we create our own routines, and the music is always live. Fantastic exercise," she added, thinking of Brent and Gabby having to fill her spot. She and Gabby had been the main attractions, and Lydia couldn't help wondering who was filling that vacancy. Which girl was getting her chance to lead?

Her legs ached after an entire day without any kind of rest, and she dropped down beside him about a foot away and drew her knees up to her chin. Closing her eyes, Lydia let her mind wander back to those happier, blissful days.

"I'm sure..." he responded, "Do you miss it?"

"I..." she hesitated, reconsidered her words and finished, "I do sometimes. I love the other girls, like sisters. We..."

Lydia didn't get to finish her thought, Murphy touching her cheek with the tips of his fingers, rough pads of warmth that startled her. She wasn't sure if it was voluntary or involuntary, but she turned her cheek into his hand, allowing him to cup her face. Eyes still shut, she just let his warmth wash over her, and she shivered when he hesitantly touched her bottom lip with his pinky. Lydia parted her lips and moaned softly.

After what seemed a life time to Lydia, he pulled back. "Lydia...I...I'm s.." he started to look away. "I don't know what that was." He leaned back against the wall.

She opened her eyes, the feel of his fingers lingering on her skin. He had turned away and was picking at the tufts of the carpet. Murphy had this hard look about him. Connor had it too, but with Murphy there was this playful edge to it that was at times scary. He'd dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Lydia focused on the tattoo on his neck, drawing her attention over along his jaw line. She licked her lips absentmindedly. Murphy rolled his neck and blinked his eyes open, catching her staring. Her breath caught, their eyes meeting across the expanse between them.

"Lydia..."

She shut him up with a rush and kiss, pressing her mouth roughly against his and straddling his lap. Hands cupping his face, she lowered her mouth to his, and he didn't protest, didn't push her away, his hands sliding down to her hips. Her tongue tangled with his. Murphy drew her body tighter against his, growing hard as her pelvis brushed against the front of his pants. The butt of his Glock dug into her breast, but she didn't care.

"Fuck, Murphy," she breathed, pulling back from their kiss.

Murphy's light blue eyes darkened as he reached up and traced his thumb along her jaw, down the side of her neck. "What do ya want, lass?"

"Something I won't regret." She extracted herself from his arms and scooted off his lap. Sitting beside him, she stared at the blank white wall next to the front door.

"Ever use a Glock before?" He popped out the magazine and handed her the weapon. "Got some fuckin' powerful kickback."

Momentarily startled, Lydia took it and rolled it over in her hand. Twice the weight of her revolver, the gun appeared menacing in her slender hand. "The weight alone would injure a guy," she chuckled nervously.

"When I aim, it's only with intent to kill."

The drop in Murphy's voice made Lydia shiver, and without realizing it, she leaned a few inches away from him. "Do you really believe God has given you and Connor this mission to rid the Great Boston area of evil men?"

"If ya mean in the sense that a great bearded old white guy came down out of the sky and directly bade us to, no. It's more like a realization of higher purpose to our lives that the Lord helped guide us toward." Murphy got up and grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the kitchen counter and returned to her side, digging his lighter out of his pocket. He lit two and handed her one. "_**The revengerer of blood himself shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him..**_

That is as God wrote it."

Lydia blew out a swirl of gray smoke and cocked a skeptical eye brow, giving Murphy a side glance.

He shrugged. "Do ya realize how fucked up the world is? How many good people don't have the means to stick up for themselves? That is where Connor and I come in." He paused to blow out a couple of smoke rings, impressing Lydia with his skills. "Ya've got to realize how fucked up ya own Da is. Men like him are the scourge of the world, making it near impossible for normal, god-fearing, and law-abiding people to feel safe in their own homes." Taking another drag, he watched Lydia ponder his words. "Do ya really think child molesters, rapists, murderers, and drug dealers deserve anything less?"

Lydia looked up at him sharply. "Are you saying that Antonio Distephano is any of those things?"

Murphy shook his head, pressing his mouth shut into a grim smile. "No, dearie. But he's been part of a family that protects those types of people. And he has been responsible for the deaths of a number of people, even if he didn't directly pull the trigger himself."

"Fuck," she whispered, dropping her head down toward her chest. Her head banged against the wall, and she winced as she looked up, rubbing the back of her head with her hand. "If my mother found that out about him, no wonder she left him before I was born."

"Yeah," Murphy flicked his ashes into the carpet. "That's really fucked up. But then, Connor and I don't even know what has happened to our Da, aside from him going to prison before we were born."

Lydia giggled, choking on her cigarette. Her giggles turned to outright laughter. Dropping her head back, she rolled it against the wall and laid her palm against his cheek, pushing his face away from her. He grabbed her wrist and planted a kiss on the inside of her hand.

"What's so funny?" He let her go, smiling with confusion as she reached up and played with his short dark hair.

"Just the two of us. No wonder we're fucked up. I'm surprised we're as well adjusted as we are," she chuckled, pulling at the hair on the base of his head.

"Yeah, well," Murphy shifted where he was sitting and concentrated on taking another drag. "Who isn't fucked up now-a-days? Everyone has an excuse for their behavior now, instead of taking responsibility for themselves." He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette, then licked his finger tips and ground out the end between them. Replacing the unfinished cigarette in his pack, he followed her with his eyes as she got up and tossed her finished cigarette in the sink. She stretched and yawned.

Murphy tilted his head slightly, taking in the curve of her calves and thighs beneath her jeans, following upward to the flare of her hips and dip of her waist. He grew harder, concentrating on the slight movement of her breasts as she breathed. Her hair brushed the tops of them, soft black curling ends that she'd worn loose and had become disheveled through out the events of the day. Imagining that same hair messy and contrasting with the white of his pillow while she slept beside him was more than Murphy could bear, and he jumped up from his spot.

Lydia had shut her eyes, interlocking her fingers, and stretched her arms over her head and behind her back slightly. "Holy shit, mother of God!" She jumped and shrieked, stumbling back into the counter when he touched her hip and lowered his head toward her neck. "Fuck you, Murphy!" She rubbed her bruised backside and glared at him.

"Sorry," he replied, but the intensity of his eyes said otherwise, and he didn't back off. "I want to fuck ya, Lydia."

She pressed back further against the counter, the sharp edge of the formica cutting into her ass. "That's fantastic," she answered sarcastically, "But-" She didn't get to finish, Murphy's lips silencing her with bruising force. Her toes curled in her boots, his passion going straight to her core.

Breathless, he paused and pulled back. "I know ya want to." He searched her face for any kind of reaction, his fingers moving upward to the hem of her shirt. His hand stopped just at the top of her jeans.

"Does that really matter? I hardly fuckin' know you," she knew that was a lame excuse, but sensible. And even for such a short time, she probably knew these three guys better than most of their long term friends. Well, at least better than the confused police, she was sure.

He kissed her again and encircled her wrist with his fingers. "Let's go," he pulled her behind him toward the back bedroom.

She should have resisted, but Lydia found that more difficult in practice than theory. The door shut behind them, and the bedroom was completely engulfed in darkness. Just the rustle of clothing was the only sound as Murphy unzipped his jeans and dropped them to the floor, followed by his gun holster and shirt. Hands grabbed her shirt from behind and pulled it off over her head, then went to the back of her bra, unhooking it with fingers more skilled than she'd expected, especially in the dark. The warmth of his chest pressed against her back, hands cupping her breasts.

"Perfect," came his hot breath in her ear. "I knew they'd fill my hands just right." He pinched her nipples.

She could sense his smile without looking and leaned back into him. Letting go of her breasts, he dropped down to her pants and unbutton them, pushing them down to floor. She kicked them away, standing just in her panties.

"Too bad we don't have any electricity yet. I wanted to see ya."

Lydia blushed, her face growing hot as she felt him growing through his boxers...she blushed again. "We...we shouldn't do this, Murphy." She half moaned her protest, his fingers brushing the front of her moist panties. He nipped her earlobe, and she dropped her head back against his shoulder.

"Ya're right," he murmured. "At least let me hold ya." Entwining their fingers, he led her down to the floor, laying down on his back and pulling her against his chest. He kissed her again.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Lydia left Murphy sleeping on the floor and redressed quietly. Trying not to make a sound she'd slipped out the bedroom door and crossed the hall to the living room where Rocco and Connor snored, using the gun bags as pillows. Half a pizza sat on the counter, cheese congealing in the cold air of the unheated apartment. She grabbed a piece and ate leaning against the counter and watching Rocco and Connor sleep. Murphy and she must have been sleeping pretty soundly not to hear those two returning the evening before. It was clear everyone had been exhausted by the previous day's events, since it was two in the afternoon and she was the only one not dead to the world.

Lydia was pretty sure McGinty's was open for the early afternoon drinkers. None of the guys had mentioned anything about her giving them any money in payment for anything, but the independent woman in her screamed for her own funding. She'd used the last of Antonio's money to pay the deposit and first month's rent on this place.

She took Connor's coat off the floor and pulled the collar up, hiding her face from view to passers-by. There were two keys for the apartment, and she left one on the counter by the stove, pocketing the other one. She'd made herself known to Doc and Bessie several times since she'd arrived in Boston, and was pretty sure they'd break down eventually and let her work for them. No one else in the area had been hiring, but she was hoping that her connection to Connor and Murphy would eventually work in her favor in this regard. She shut the door silently and walked down the stairs and out on to the sidewalk.

Giving the area a quick once over to see if anything seemed out of place, or to see if she recognized anyone from her recent unpleasant experiences, she shoved her hands into the pockets of the coat and pushed against the bitter wind toward the bar.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia noticed that her body felt more relaxed than she'd felt since arriving in Boston, and cursed Murphy's involvement with a smile. Brent had always kidded her about her lack of male companionship, and she chuckled while imagining what he would think of Murphy. In their values and male protective personalities, the twins and Brent weren't that much different, and she couldn't help growing fonder of the brothers.

McGinty's wasn't crowded like it would be in the evening, the afternoon barflies sitting quietly and moodily on their stools. Doc immediately looked up at her from where he was drying glasses and Bessie was restocking bottles.

"Hello there, lassie! Glad to see ya b-b-back!" Doc set what he was doing down and walked around the bar to her and pointed to an empty booth. Bessie watched them a moment, then joined them at Doc's signal. "Sit, dearie," Doc continued, "Bessie and I've been talking it over. Not to mention Murphy and Connor told us a bit about ya situation."

Lydia blushed.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, girl," Bessie added with a motherly smile. "My dear brother and I've decided to hire ya, especially considerin' what ya said about experience. And would ya explain that just for good measure?" Doc nodded his agreement.

"Well, I worked tending bar in Nawlins before a friend of mine opened a Burlesque, where I worked as a lead dancer."

"A st-st-strip club?" Doc asked in confusion and Lydia exclaimed horrified against that term.

"NO! Sir... we sang musical numbers and danced, and never were nude. This was a classy establishment devoted to art!" Lydia felt a blush creep again at Bessie's arched brow and smile.

"Well, none of that matters now does it, Doc," Bessie quickly smoothed over, laying her hand on Lydia's tenderly. "We'd like ya to start immediately. Perhaps now so we can see exactly what ya can do." Her smile was comforting, and Lydia nodded her agreement.

Doc returned to the bar to serve drinks while Bessie showed Lydia around the small kitchen where a short-order cook waved at her, a young guy who looked like he'd just hit puberty but she quickly learned was just a year younger than her. She'd be working the front with Doc while Bessie retired to the back with Paul the cook. They'd been getting more food orders as lunch time became more popular at the bar, and more people came in the evening wanting dinner with their drinks. Just burgers and the like, but it was becoming more than Paul could handle on his own.

Ten dollars an hour plus tips was the offer, and Lydia took it without protest, grateful that they'd actually given her a chance.

"Now, we don't actually have a dress code, but I'm sure ya can handle ya self appropriately. Just don't get bent out of shape if some guy appreciates ya assets," Bessie added with seriousness. "These guys are all nice and respect women, but they're not the most politically correct, and I don't want them getting physically injured over an uptight barmaid."

Lydia broke out into a smile, "You don't have to worry about that, Bessie, I've verbally handled my own that way for quite some time."

Bessie relaxed into a grin and added, "Then, lets see what ya can do, if ya're available to start now."

Lydia remembered the men sleeping back at the apartment, and smiled, nodding that she was.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

"Lydia..." Murphy groaned and rolled over, reaching for her only to find her spot cold. He sat up suddenly and looked about, the coat he'd covered himself with sliding off. Her clothes were gone from the room, and he smiled, imagining her somewhere in the apartment putting around. He stretched and stood, grabbing his pants off the floor and tugging them on. Sweet memories of her lying against him made him tighten against the zipper. He paused and willed his erection to calm itself.

Opening the door to the room, he listened for the sounds of others stirring. He could hear Rocco and Connor murmuring in the kitchen and living room. The white painted walls of the apartment were glaringly bright in the afternoon light filtering through the windows. He shielded his eyes when he entered the room and blinked as he looked around.

"Where's Lydia?" He looked from Connor to Rocco.

Connor looked up from where he was searching under the cabinet for the water valve to the sink. "Dunno, thought she was still with ya in the room..." He grinned at Rocco who had to stifle a snort of laughter.

Murphy glared at them, and leaned against the counter to watch his brother trying to turn on the water that was supposedly activated that morning by the company.

"Nope, she was gone when I got up," Murphy crossed his arms, trying not to let worry creep into his voice. Her holsters and guns were still on the floor in the bedroom, and he couldn't imagine where she might have gone without them. It concerned him to not know where she was or how long she'd been gone, and without protection.

"Well, she snitched Connor's coat sometime this morning," Rocco offered, "So maybe she went out for a bit. Just some time to herself."

Murphy didn't like Rocco's answer, but didn't have time to answer as Connor exclaimed his excitement and the water suddenly started flowing from the faucet.

Connor stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. "I say we give her till evening before we get too concerned over her disappearance. She left a key on the counter, so I'm guessing she has the other one. She could be shopping for food for all we know." He touched Murphy on the shoulder when he made to move from the counter. "Relax brother, she is a big girl. And I have a feeling she can handle herself despite her unfortunate experiences since arriving here."

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

The evening rush of the pub hadn't done anything to Lydia except make her spirits brighter. The swing of tending bar had returned to her like riding a bicycle, the banter back and forth with clients flowing easily from her lips. Bessie and Doc's concerns, whatever they may have been, were quickly alleviated as Lydia poured drinks. She'd made more tips than anticipated, but Bessie had just smiled and made some comment about the guys appreciating a little bit of eye candy behind the bar, not just Doc. Lydia had blushed, but secretly she was excited over having her money in her pocket.

It was ten before she realized she'd never made any effort to contact the guys about where she was, and in her sudden worry, she rushed into the kitchen despite the calls from the bar.

"Bessie!" She ran in breathless and bumped into Paul. "Sorry..."

Bessie looked up and smiled, then frowned at Lydia's concern. "What is, dearie?"

"I've forgotten all about Connor and Murphy, they are probably worried sick over my whereabouts..."

"Go, girl," Bessie nodded, "Ya've already worked a full shift." And Lydia mouthed her apologies grabbing Connor's coat off the wall hook in the kitchen. Bessie just smiled and shooed her off. Turning the collar up against the winter air, Lydia checked for her key and hurried out the door.

It was only about three blocks away from the apartment, and there was a small grocer between the pub and there. She ran into the brightly lighted store and paused to smile at the cashier who looked a little surprised by her entrance. But he quickly returned to the novel in his hand.

The electricity had been turned on that morning at the apartment, and she was pretty sure none of the guys had gone to get any kind of food or supplies for the household keeping. She grabbed a basket and put in some toilet paper and paper towels. She wasn't getting a lot, just some necessities. Peanut butter, jelly and bread. Two loaves, she decided since she was pretty sure the guys would get more than one sandwich. Chips, beer and some pickles. It wasn't a lot, but she decided that it would tide them over till she could use the car to get more. She walked past the pastry aisle and saw a box of ding dongs and added it to the cart. Chocolate-covered and powdered Hostess donuts for breakfast and a thing of orange juice. If they had any complaints, fuck 'em, she thought, and pushed the buggy to the counter to check out.

The boy popped his gum and closed his book, looking a little annoyed at her presence. He moved her through quickly and offered no goodbye as she hoisted the paper bags into her arms and left.

The walk was only another block from the store, but she felt her arms starting to ache as she made her way back. She paused on the steps to adjust the groceries, then entered and half ran up the staircase to the apartment. She set a bag down and reached into her pocket just as the door suddenly swung inward to reveal a disheveled Connor, his eyes lighting up with surprise. He paused, then grinned and yelled back into the apartment.

"Murphy, Lydia's back." He bent to lift the bag off the ground and took the other from her, herding her into the living room. He took the bags to the kitchen and started unloading them.

Murphy came running in from the back room and stopped abruptly. A mixture of anger and relief crossed his face. Lydia bit her lip and looked down as she pushed past him to the kitchen, reaching to assist Connor. Murphy grabbed her arm, pulling her back roughly and she turned on him angrily, keeping her tongue silent as she took in his expression.

"Where've ya been, Lydia," Murphy kept his voice quiet, though she sensed what he really wanted to do was shake her and scream. His grip on her arm loosened as she tensed against him, jerking away and knocking his hand off her.

"I've been at Doc's. He hired me today, and I've been working." She smiled to herself at his confusion, as Connor turned and laughed.

"Good for you, girl!" Connor popped a can of beer open. He looked toward Murphy who'd finally recovered and was looking decidedly less angry at Lydia. "I told Murphy he shouldn't be too worried right away."

Murphy glared at his brother before stealing the beer out of Connor's hand and drinking it.

Lydia took the opportunity to look around the room and noticed that there was now an old stained couch in the middle of the living room and the same small TV that they'd had in the loft. Up against the wall were the two twin mattresses. Lydia kicked herself about her abandoned place. Her clothes, the El Camino. All were still, at least she hoped, there, and her rent was due in just a few days. Hopefully, everything would still be there, she crossed her fingers. Concern over whether or not her apartment was being watched made her pause in her considerations.

"Here," Connor handed her a sandwich and popped the bag of chips open on the counter.

"Thanks," she bit into it and felt her stomach clench as food hit it. It had been sometime since she'd eaten, and she hadn't realized how hungry she was. She ate half of it before she paused to breath.

"You've been busy since I was gone," she finally spoke, "new couch and got your beds."

Neither of the guys said anything, just nodded. Everyone seemed too busy with food for the moment. She took another bite and then realized that Rocco was missing.

"Where's Rocco," she looked around.

"He left for his apartment, wanted to get a few personal items that he'd forgotten. He should be back in an hour." Murphy paused in eating to light a cigarette, his hands still shaking a bit from his worry.

Lydia nodded. "I need to do the same...been wearing these same clothes..." she looked down distastefully at her plaid shirt, "far too long. And I have a car I need to get moved."

Murphy and Connor both stopped mid-bite and looked at her a moment before turning to each other.

"We'll go with ya," Connor said, his tone making an argument futile. He brushed the crumbs from his hands and pushed back from the table. "We can go tonight, if ya like. Do ya think there is anyone watching ya place?"

Murphy continued to stare at Lydia as he finished his sandwich and chips, Lydia returning his gaze. She looked up at Connor. "Yeah, that's fine. And I don't know, though I wouldn't be surprised if they were. But I have been gone nearly three weeks from the place, so they may have assumed I've abandoned it by now." She brushed her crumbs off into her hand and got up to dump them in the sink.

Lydia felt a sudden warmth behind her, hands on her shoulders, moving down her arms. She tensed then relaxed against Murphy, leaning her back into his chest. She'd been angry at his outburst to her absence, but in truth, she'd been relieved. Yeah, she'd only gone to McGinty's, but

considering her disappearance with the Russian's and Yakavetta's interest in her, his worry had not been unwarranted. There was something comforting in his presence behind her, the strength in his arms slowly wrapping around her.

"I'm sorry."

She shivered, melting into him as his whisper brushed her ear. How quickly she'd felt attracted to his presence, and how quickly it had been for her to turn to him for comfort. It hadn't been sex, but the physical contact between them had been electrifying enough to make her want more.

Connor eyed them from the couch where he was pulling on his boots, tying them. "Hey, are we going or not?" Impatience in his voice.

Murphy growled softly, just so she could hear, his lips lingering on the side of her neck. She smiled and gently turned to face him, pressing her mouth to his, tasting the beer and cigarettes on his breath, his tongue warm, wet against hers. He cupped her breast, then pulled away in frustration as Connor once again interrupted.

"We should be going quickly," Murphy said mostly to her. He stopped as he turned away, then looked back at her and back to Connor. "I think Lydia should stay here. We know which apartments she's staying in. Just need the number," he took her hand and pulled her toward Connor and the couch. Lydia barely protested as Connor looked up from the gun he'd gotten out and loaded. He holstered it and stared at her briefly, then looked at Murphy.

"Sounds reasonable to me," he answered while Murphy let her go to get his own gun. Connor pulled another magnum from the bag and made sure it was loaded. "Keep this handy while we're gone, and don't shoot Rocco when he gets back," he added with a chuckle. "Which place is it?"

"Number 303," she replied taking the gun in her hand and sliding it down the back of her jeans. Murphy's hand touched hers on the gun, and she had to resist the urge to fuck him, again.

Murphy nodded to his brother, and they grabbed their coats, turning the collars up.

Connor grabbed their masks off the table and paused to cup Lydia's face. "Don't worry, lass,, Murphy and I will be back quickly. Anything in particular ya want us to get?" His hand burned against her cheek, and Lydia swallowed as she forced her body not to press against him. Connor's touch had surprised her.

"My clothes and the keys to the car. They were on the TV when I was last there. Use it to bring everything back." She sat on the couch and watched them leave the apartment. She sat there staring at the door long after she'd heard the deadbolt click into place. Murphy and Connor's scents still lingered in her nostrils.

It was confusing her; Murphy and she had gone beyond just acquaintances, yet here she was feeling sexually attracted to Connor as well. The thought disturbed her, but she knew in her heart that if Connor made any kind of move beyond a simple touch, she'd be putty in his hands like she was with Murphy. She knit her brows in consternation and frowned at the possibility of her involvement with either brother. Dangerous, she finally decided. No, she didn't believe they would harm her physically, ever. But emotionally? What kind of men were they? What kind of men truly believed God had called them to rid the world of evil men? Or at least the Boston area.

Lydia shivered and drew in a sharp breath. Who could she be safer around than these two? Her father and Yakavetta were most likely looking for her, but how she'd kept below their radar, she wasn't sure. Or if she even had. How much danger was she bringing to these guys by her connections? Well, she finally decided, not anymore than they were bringing on themselves.

She wrapped her arms around herself and stood, pushing the thermostat up higher, and upon hearing it click on and the rush of warm air, she went back to the kitchen. The chips sat on the counter open and she quickly found herself busy putting away the food and toilet paper.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

"Fuck me, brother," Murphy stood shivering in the hall way in front of Lydia's abandoned apartment. "Get it open already!" His loud whisper echoed in the hall as he glanced up and down the space, watching for anyone coming or going.

"Shut it, Murph, I'm doing the best I can." Connor finally felt the door give, and he shoved his license back into his pocket. "There." He pushed the door open and held it for Murphy. Both wrinkled their noses at the state of the place. Clothes had been thrown about in disarray as if someone had been looking for something, and the scent of dog vomit had not faded.

"Fuck," Murphy whispered quietly as Connor set about gathering what still looked wearable as opposed to shredded. He grabbed the keys off the top of the TV, surprised that they would even still be there. The connection between her and the car must not have been realized at the time of the ransacking. He pocketed them and went to helping Connor.

There wasn't a suitcase anywhere, just shredded white plastic, so they gathered all the clothes into their arms and headed back out. Looking around again, Connor slipped down the hall with Murphy behind him. The El Camino was park about a block down the street away from the apartment, most likely due to the crowd of cars when she'd moved in, and she'd never had a chance to move it. Luckily, they noticed, she'd found one of the few non-metered spots in town, and no one had towed her car.

Murphy looked around before unlocking the car door, and they shoved everything into the back. Connor slid into the passenger seat, Murphy into the driver's.

"El...Caaminooo..." Murphy chuckled suddenly as he cranked it a couple times before it sputtered to life. Connor just rolled his eyes and shook his head, slouching down in the seat. The El Camino rattled loudly a few minutes then settled into a comfortable quiet roar. It took them about five to get to the new apartment, but they parked her car around the corner from their place on a different side street. If anyone recognized the car as Lydia's, especially with the Louisiana plates, Murphy didn't want anyone getting the connection to the new apartment.

They got out, gathered up the clothes again and quickly returned to the apartment.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Rocco lay on the couch, groaning about whatever the bitch in his old apartment had reamed him about after he'd left Connor and Murphy earlier. Lydia half listened, the gun in her jeans a little more present now that she was having to listen to him. Luckily, at that time the door opened, shutting Rocco up as both jumped from their seats, aiming their revolvers at Murphy and Connor bursting in.

"Well, fuck us," Connor laughed as the two came in and dropped Lydia's stuff on the floor.

Joy crossed her face, and she shoved the revolver back into the holster on her belt, immediately gathering her clothes up. She dropped them in the bed room, entering it for the first time since she'd returned from McGinty's and noticed appreciatively that there was a mattress and sheets pushed against the back wall, a ratty twin that had probably been in a dumpster somewhere...but still better than the floor.

She grabbed a pair of jeans and a clean shirt, peeled off her filthy ones and felt better with the clean ones on. Smiling, she returned to the living room where Connor, Rocco, and Murphy had rediscovered the beer and cigarettes, and the Ding Dongs, and were discussing their plans for the next day, Thursday if Lydia remembered correctly.

"Every Thursday evening at ten, the same girl. Fuck, he's probably been jackin' to her for seven years." Rocco was explaining when she came to sit on the floor beside Murphy, looking up at the two on the couch. Murphy smiled at her and handed her his cigarette as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She'd never thought she'd be a smoker, but the stress of the situation made it seem like one of the better options as opposed to shooting herself or someone else in the head.

"Vincenzo," she questioned, looking at Rocco as she took a drag. "Is there anyway I can help?"

Murphy's hand tightened on her thigh.

"At this point, I think you should just stay away. If anyone sees ya, it could get back to Yakavetta, and that opens up another set of problems," Connor replied. "If I were ya, I'd just go to McGinty's...then we can come for ya afterwards." His blue eyes studied her green ones a moment, as if he had something further to say, but couldn't...or wouldn't.

Lydia leaned her body deeper into Murphy's though she couldn't stop staring at Connor. Maybe it was just the intensity of their situation. All the violence, and potential violence, that was brewing around them. Rocco didn't inspire her confidence, but he was friends with Connor and Murphy, which meant he stayed. However, despite her growing relationship, whatever that meant in this particular moment, with Murphy only deepened her curiosity about Connor. She studied the lighter haired twin, taking in his striking physical differences. There could never be one without the other, she thought.

"I suppose that would be best, I might even try to sell the El Camino while you're gone," she looked up at Murphy finally. "The cash would be useful, and I am sure Yakavetta's people will eventually connect it to me."

Murphy kissed the top of her head and smiled.

"Sounds like a plan," Connor replied, quickly looking away from the two of them.

Rocco leaned forward, head between his knees. "Fuckin' hell, this is some heavy shit. How do you stay so fuckin' calm?" He looked up and stared at Murphy and Lydia, then back to Connor. "FUCK! FUCKING...FUCK FUCK!" Rocco thumped his hand against the floor, accentuating each fuck with a bang.

"Shut it, Roc, this ain't the time." Connor got up and peeled off his shirt and stripped to his boxers. Lydia quickly turned away. "Everyone should be getting some rest, we've got a stressful day tomorrow, and Lydia has work...so..." He sat on his mattress and gave everyone a look like a dorm matron would to her girls. "Get the fuck to bed!" No one protested.

Lydia rose and moved down the hall to the bathroom. Murphy didn't move, but Rocco had laid down on the couch and seemed to be sleeping right away. She met Murphy's gaze as she flipped the bathroom light on. A hot shower seemed like bliss to her at the moment, and she tore her eyes from his and shut the door behind her.

"All around me are familiar faces, Worn out places, Worn out faces," she sang quietly to herself as she turned on the water, testing it with the back of her hand while the room steamed up. All the events of the day filled her mind as she stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed. Apparently the boys had been doing a bit of shopping themselves. There was already a thing of toilet paper and someone had put soap and shampoo on the ledge of the tub. "I want to drown my sorrow, no tomorrow, no tomorrow." The running water drowned out her singing as she scrubbed herself. The warmth and steam felt like a luxury after so many days of nothing. The bubbles of the soap and shampoo ran down her body, and she wished she had a razor to at least shave her legs. Finally, she rinsed and turned the water off. The boys had brought their towels, and they hung next to the shower. She grabbed one and wrapped it around her. The privacy of the bathroom had been bliss, and she smiled remembering the other place with the freezing shower and the twins' shame at being caught staring.

Yeah, she supposed she was attracted to Murphy first, but as time was going one, she was seeing Connor for who he was, too. How would she decide between the two if that ever came up? For now, she was claimed by Murphy, but she was getting a distinct feeling that Connor wasn't entirely satisfied with that arrangement.

"I find it kind of funny, I find it kinda sad," She half hummed as she toweled her hair dry. Either that, or he was just annoyed with Murphy over her. Perhaps Connor thought of her as a distraction, though he'd never come right out and said that. "The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had," but then, she'd insisted on leaving them, and both had insisted she stay for her own safety. Chivalry wasn't dead after all...

"It's a very, very mad world..." she paused and studied her self in the mirror. She hummed the rest of the song and pulled her shirt and pants back on. Hanging up the towel, she switched off the light and went into the bedroom. The living room was dark, except for the a street light through the window. Murphy had gone to bed in the living room on the extra mattress and she felt a tug at her heart, wondering why he'd not chosen her bed. But considering there'd been no official coming out of them being involved it was best that way. Besides, only fucking once didn't make one a couple. She grimaced at the thought of "being a couple." Just didn't sound right when say in association of Murphy, or Connor for that matter.

She shut her bedroom door and felt her way to the bed. She slid her pants off again and laid down. Someone had put the sheets on her bed and covered it with a blanket. Whoever it was, she was in their debt forever as she snuggled down. Her eyes drifted closed.

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

_Ancient oaks, Spanish moss dangling like hair, surrounded the dark grassy expanse. Slender, young trees bent to the ground, while the oaks' branches creaked and groaned with the force of the wind. A crack of thunder and flash of lightening was all she needed to see and know what was happening. _

_Her black hair whipped around her face, as warm droplets drenched her thin tank-top and shorts._

_It was just the beginning._

_Hurricane._

**s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s**

Murphy's eyes flashed open as he heard the door to the bathroom open, and he listened to the soft footsteps go into the bedroom. Since she'd left the room, Connor and Rocco had fallen asleep, and he'd tried. But he'd been painfully aware of her presence in the apartment and couldn't find rest. He shifted so he could look straight down the hall toward her dark door. He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. At this rate he'd never get any rest and would be worthless tomorrow at the Sin Bin. All he could think about was the warmth of her body against his. Knowing exactly where she was. Knowing nothing was happening to her.

He stood, watching both Rocco and Connor for any movement. Both appeared to be sleeping soundly as he tiptoed through the room toward the hall. He placed his hand on the knob, looking back to make sure he didn't wake anyone.

Moonlight highlighted her sleeping features, her dark hair almost blue in the beam of light. He shut the door and moved closer to her, not sure if he should touch her or just watch her. She moved and shifted, murmuring in her sleep, her features drawn up into a concerned expression. The shift knocked the sheet off her and he drew in a sharp breath at her exposed breast silver in the night light, her nipple dark. Her shirt had inched up, and he was torn between covering her back with the sheet and crawling in the bed with her just so he could cover it with his own hand.

Sweat beaded his forehead, and his body responded to her .

Finally he moved toward the bed and slid beneath the covers next to her. She didn't wake, but he felt her snuggle down against him, sighing in her sleep. He carefully pulled the blanket and sheet up over the both of them and laid his head down next to hers. He watched her breathe, her red lips moving ever so slightly with each breath.

Murphy leaned forward and kissed her forehead before drifting to sleep himself.


End file.
